Half-Past Dawn (19 page)

Jack looked at the small sliver of tattoo protruding from his left sleeve, written in an obscure language, from a culture not many had
heard of. In all honesty, when Professor Adoy had looked at his arm and mentioned the foreign tongue earlier that day, it wasn’t the first time Jack had heard of the Cotis people. He had, in fact, prosecuted and won a conviction against one of them for triple homicide and had watched as that man was executed last fall.

In the file, there was a book on the Cotis people and the history of their small Asian country. He had read it through, trying to gain insight into the man he was prosecuting, but found the book to be filled with legends, mysteries, and myths, none of which helped him in his prosecution. There was the one-page dossier on the accused, whom they never could uncover background on and, most important, the detailed evidence that damned him to death by chemical injection.

Jack closed the file, the hidden door, and the armoire. He tucked the file under his arm and walked back into the kitchen.

“You got it?’

“Yeah.”

“You going to tell me what you got?”

“I think Mia’s kidnapping may be connected to a case I handled a while back.”

“Yeah, how do you know?”

Jack put the thick file on the counter, pulled out and opened the book on the Cotis people, specifically to a page of their language. He rolled up his sleeve and laid his arm next to it. While the lettering was on a different scale and in different coloring, there was no question: it was similar.

“And you didn’t mention this before because—”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“Bullshit.” Frank was pissed. “You better start sharing everything that you know if you want my help. That’s what partners do, remember?”

Jack nodded. “Of course, I remember.”

“I’m going to get the car.”

“All right, let’s go—”

“No. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. I need to clear my head now, thank you very much.”

As Jack watched Frank angrily walk out the side door, he closed the Cotis file. He looked again at his arm, the brown intricate writing continuous around his skin from elbow to wrist.

He thought himself insane for not remembering where it came from, how something so intricate could be applied, yet he had no memory of it. And as he continued to stare, he wondered whether Professor Adoy’s translation was accurate. Maybe there was more to what was written than either of them realized.

Jack loved Greek mythology but was obsessed with puzzles and mysteries. It was what inspired him in his job, trying to unwrap the unknown, piecing together evidence into a coherent story, into the truth. Now he was the mystery.

He had been intrigued by puzzles since he was a child and started creating his own around the age of seventeen. It started out with word problems, progressed to numeric puzzles and then on to mechanical puzzles, those impossible metal knots. He would build wooden cubes of twenty pieces that fit together like a glove, his work progressing into hidden compartments in the furniture he crafted, puzzle boxes for his children to solve, where once they found the secret drawer, a gift would be waiting inside.

As Jack stared at his arm, he realized that he was within one of his own puzzles, trying to find his way out. While he remembered images of the man on the riverbank the night before, nothing else was forthcoming. He still had no idea how he was stitched up, how he got home.

And his senses … he felt as if he was in a hyperreality. Everything he looked at seemed brighter, richer; all of the sounds, no matter how far away, were clearer, the birds outside, Fruck panting as he ran around the yard. But with every hour, Jack felt as if his mind was failing him more and more.

He heard a noise at the side door. He quickly rolled down his sleeve and grabbed his gun off the counter.

As he spun around, he was faced with the last person he thought he would see.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” Jack said.

His father stood there in the doorway. A moment passed as father and son looked at each other.

Jack and his father had never really gotten along, sometimes going almost a year without speaking. And it was something everyone was well aware of. Their friends and family had grown used to their constant fighting and intermittent estrangements and had tried to mediate between the two on too many occasions, finally leaving them to their own arguments, devices, and silence.

But this moment was different, his father’s eyes holding a hint of uncharacteristic warmth.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” Jack said.

David Keeler stared at him, the moment hanging there like a death knell, before he finally shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

Jack’s father walked into the kitchen and stood across the counter from him.

As much as his father denied it, Jack could feel his mind unhinging. “I’ve always had the best memory. I can remember back to the womb, for Christ’s sake.” Jack paused, pulling up his sleeve. “Look at this. I can’t remember getting it; I can’t remember what happened after the accident. What is happening to me?”

David reached across the table and gently took his son’s arm, turning it over, studying the tattoo before shaking his head. “I don’t know. But I can tell you there is so much in this world that doesn’t make sense and probably never will.”

The two looked at each other. His father still held his arm. Jack could feel the warmth from him, something he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

“So, any word on Mia?” David asked as he finally released Jack’s arm.

“No.” Jack looked at the file on the counter. “And I can’t help thinking this is my fault.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Stop feeling guilty and sorry for yourself.”

“Sorry for myself?” Jack snapped.

“Yeah, the more time you sit wallowing in self-pity, the less time you have to save your wife.” David paused. “How are you feeling?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m your father; I see it in your eyes.”

“I’m worried for my wife.”

“How sick are you?” David asked, in a tone of concern that Jack didn’t remember ever hearing in his father’s voice. “Your mother noticed it this morning, but she’s always been one to avoid difficult conversations.”

“Unlike you, who can’t allow a thought not to pass your lips?”

“You know I don’t dance around tough topics.”

“The more time we sit around talking about that, the less time I’ll have to save Mia.”

David stared at his son.

“With this hole in my memory … I think I’m losing my grip on reality—”

“Reality is all a matter of perspective, Jack. There’s the reality of history books, which both you and I know is always fine-tuned. There is the individual reality that we each experience when observing an incident. Think of how often you get a reliable witness on the stand who tells an entirely different story from your star witness, even though both individuals were standing in the same room and both are sure of what they’ve seen.”

Jack absorbed his father’s words, looking closer at the man he hadn’t seen in six months. “Why did you come back?”

“It was shouted to the world this morning that you and Mia were dead. Turns out she’s missing, you’re sick—though you don’t want to admit it—and we both know that if someone killed you once and failed, they’ll be trying again. You need me,” his father said simply.

“Why?”

“Who else tells you when you’re screwing up, tells you when you’re wrong? I’m here to set your head straight, tell you that you can do this, and watch over your girls.”

“Yeah, and if you came back to watch over them, why are you here talking to me?”

“Your mother is capable, and the man at the end of our driveway, the guy Frank sent, has an eye on them. And with respect to why I’m here—because you’re my son, and as I’ve heard it, some fathers and sons talk.”

“Look.” Jack felt his guilt building. “I said some things …”

“Yeah, you sure did,” David said. Jack waited for him to admit some culpability, but that wasn’t forthcoming. “We’re not going to waste time on those issues. Let’s stay focused on getting Mia. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, the fear, the worry and anxiety, but remember, this is where you thrive. No one thinks clearer under stress than you. When you were a kid, you were so good under pressure; it’s what made you such a strong goalie. With games riding on your shoulders, no one was better at protecting the net, no matter how many shots were fired at you. You carried that talent into every aspect of your life.

“And this is hard to admit: you never listened to me about sports, school, your career. And you know what? You were right. You were right every time. You always listened to your heart, to that voice inside you. Listen to it now. Embrace the pressure as you’ve always done. It makes you think clearer, it allows you to see solutions where others don’t.” David paused. “You’ll find Mia. Trust in yourself. I do.”

Jack looked as his father, his words filling him with confidence.

“Jack,” his father said, “let’s keep this conversation between us. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea, especially your mother.”

David patted Jack’s shoulder, and it might as well have been a hug.

Jack smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be watching over the girls,” David said as he headed out the door. “You go find your wife.”

Jack’s cell phone rang, startling him. He didn’t dare answer it unless it was Frank or Joy. He glanced at the caller ID, and his heart leaped. He couldn’t answer Mia’s call fast enough.

“Hello, Jack,” the voice said.

“Who is this?”

“I see we’ve both risen from the dead.”

Jack knew the voice instantly, the deep, haunting tone, the polished accent.

“You sent me to die, Jack. Not sure how
you
survived, but I guess you’re wondering the same about me. You can stop wondering where Mia is. I’ve got her. She is so beautiful. Her hair dark like the night, her eyes filled with emotion, all kinds of emotion. And her smell, do you remember her smell?”

“You lay one hand on her—”

“Who says I haven’t already? And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

“I don’t know how you’re alive—”

“I guess it’s fate that we’re both alive, because I sure wouldn’t call it coincidence. Cute trick keeping an empty evidence case in the car. Was that your idea or your wife’s?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got your note, Jack.”

“What note?” Jack said in total confusion.

“I know you like puzzles and playing games, but I can assure you, this is no game.”

Jack was silent, perplexed at the man’s words. He hadn’t written any note, let alone had any clue this man could possibly be alive.

“You know what I want, Jack, and you’re going to get it for me.”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, there’s every chance. You and I, Jack, are going to get it together. A little match-up, a partnership between the executed and
the executioner. Mr. DA is about to break every law in his little law book.”

Jack looked down at the file on his kitchen counter. He knew exactly who was on the other end of the line. He had studied him, tried him, convicted him and, on April 15 of last year, watched as Nowaji Cristos, the man on the phone, was executed.

F
RIDAY
, 4:15
P.M
.

H
ELLO
,” F
RANK SAID INTO
his cell phone as he got into the car.

“Frank, Matt Daly.”

“Hey.”

“No bodies yet; we’ve got a torn shirt, probably Jack’s,” Matt said.

Frank had completely forgotten about Matt Daly’s team dragging the river.

“Listen,” Frank said, “you’ve got to do me a favor. Try to keep things from the press as long as you can. And keep it local. Byram Hills cops only. Think you can do that?”

“I’ll do my best. We’re working toward the spillway, probably eight hours before we reach it. Though there’s a good chance their bodies could be hung up in the rocks.”

“Thanks.”

“And Frank, there’s a bullet hole in the shirt, right above the heart. This was no accident.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d say that. You’re digging into this, aren’t you?”

Frank’s silence answered the question.

“I’ll keep things under wraps as long as I can,” Matt said. “You need any more help, you call me.”

“Thanks again.” Frank hung up the phone, slammed the door, and started the Jeep.

J
ACK LEAPED INTO
the Audi. He looked at the gas gauge, near empty, and shook his head before he drove out of the driveway as fast as he could, the garage door auto-closing behind him. He headed east down Banksville Road, in the opposite direction that Frank would be coming from. Frank went out the door pissed and would arrive back any minute even more pissed when he found out that Jack had slipped away again. But Jack wasn’t going to risk Mia’s life by involving Frank or anyone else in what he was about to do.

Jack was on his way to meet a dead man. He had wondered what in his life had set him on this path. Was there a singular moment that made this day inevitable? Was it karma, fate, payback for a bad decision in his youth?

His mind jumped back to that night so many years ago when Apollo died, when he killed those two teens. He thought about the promise to himself never to kill again. He thought of how hard he had dedicated himself to fighting crime without a gun, doing whatever it took to get a conviction.

While he was so disturbed by the deaths in that loft building, the lives he took, the life he couldn’t save, swearing off his gun, he realized that he didn’t need the gun to kill. He had done it with the power of the justice system. And while he felt it was justified and within the constraints of the laws of the state, he had still taken the life of a man.

Now that man, Nowaji Cristos, had somehow returned and was exacting his revenge.

N
OWAJI
C
RISTOS

O
N
F
EBRUARY 8 TWO
years ago, Nowaji Cristos lay prone above UN Plaza, his left eye nuzzled into the gun sight of the Israeli-made Galil sniper rifle. Dressed in a blue maintenance worker’s jumper, his long black hair pulled tightly into a ponytail, he stared down, watching the motorcade’s approach. Cristos knew that the escort by New York City cops on motorcycles was only for show, a gesture to make the Pashir general and ruler feel important, to boost the already oversized ego of a diminutive military man who rose to power through a coup d’état two years earlier.