Ice Shear (33 page)

“The bags won't break. Drop the load, Craig.”

“I am, I am,” Craig said. “Hold your horses.”

The radio was mostly silent, with brief grunts from Craig. No one approached from any direction. The only movement on the street came from the Merrimen. The fires were contained, but the men swung farther and farther away from the Jelicksons' property, like moons breaking away from a planet's orbit, tossing rocks at one of the streetlights until it broke.

“Okay. I'm done. And I'm texting whoever to let them know,” Craig said. “Okay. He's telling me there's a box for me in the entryway of Saint Patrick's?” Saint Patrick's was where I'd been baptized, but it had closed before Craig was born. I gave him directions.

“Craig, tell the person that if the money isn't waiting for you, you are going to come back and kick his ass,” Hale said.

“Done,” Craig said. “They're responding. ‘Shut it or . . . ur . . . dead.”

“Don't give it a second thought, Craig,” Hale said. “We won't let him kill you.”

Craig drove under my position on his way out to the main road. The rain hit the back of my neck as I craned over, and the SUV's slick roof glinted unevenly, the elements having worn away the finish, the rust running dull, the rest shining. Craig continued to the main road and stopped at Saint Patrick's.

“I've picked up the money, the box,” Craig said. “I'm heading toward Mohawk Street.”

“Charlie to Alpha. A subject has exited rear of Jelicksons',” came a voice, chattering teeth clicking over the radio. “Over the fence.” I craned my neck, but the backyard of the Jelicksons' was completely beyond my view.

“Charlie to Alpha. We've got an ID. It's Jackie DeGroot.”

A
LPHA TO CHARLIE. REPORT
on DeGroot,” Hale demanded. I was eager, too. Not being able to see or act was driving me crazy. Jackie was a wild card in this, an emotional teenager who knew her beloved boyfriend had cheated on her.

“Charlie” narrated Jackie's every move. “DeGroot's at the side of the alley. Subject is crouching down.”

A vehicle approached on Mohawk Street and sped past Craig, who was headed in the other direction.

“Sierra 4 to Alpha,” I said. “Vehicle passing checkpoint, Chevy half ton.” I trained my binoculars on the driver's side until I could make an ID. “DeGroot's father.”

“Foxtrot to Alpha. Vehicle slowing. Vehicle's stopped. Jackie DeGroot is running toward the vehicle . . . and she's in.”

“And the vehicle's away,” came Hale's voice. “It's heading your way, Lima.”

“Lima to Alpha, confirmed.” The truck came out of the alley going around sixty. It didn't turn down the Jelicksons' block, but again made the turn right off Mill Way.

“Thank God she's out of there,” came Dave's voice.

“Alpha to Lima, tail the DeGroots.”

A low black car, driving with its lights off, slid past.

“Alpha to Echo,” Hale said. “Cover Lima position.”

“Can I talk?” Craig asked.

“Yes, Craig,” Hale said.

“Look, dude, this box is too light. There's no money. I should check.”

“No,” Hale said. “Drive to the meeting place. The agents who are tailing you—”

“What?!” Craig said. “I don't see them! Shit, with all this rain—” He sounded like he was having a full-blown panic attack.

“They're behind you. Trust me. Gentlemen, do you have Master Craig here in view?”

“We do.” Dave's voice came over the radio. “Hi, Craig.”

Craig didn't answer, and Hale spoke again. “See now, Craig, all taken care of. Continue with the original plan—”

Dave broke in, sharp and short. “He took the wrong road.”

I craned my neck, watching for headlights. On the river road I saw a flash through the trees, a second set of headlights shining through a moment later. The gap closed between the second vehicle and the first, until Dave and Bailey's headlights illuminated the bumper of Craig's car. The river road was an easy route to the highway, letting people get out of town fast without having to negotiate the rutted, tight streets of downtown. Did he have a bigger plan or was he just stupid?

“Correct course, Craig,” Hale said evenly. I wondered if he really had faith in Craig or whether he was keeping everyone, including the other agents, calm. “Craig, please acknowledge.”

Nothing for ten seconds. Then fifteen. Finally Hale spoke, his voice hard.

“Alpha to Bravo, intercept the vehicle.”

“Bravo to Alpha. Affirmative,” said Bailey.

“Alpha to Foxtrot, provide backup for the agents in pursuit.”

Mike Tran, who was well respected for his work on New York City gang kidnappings and was up here for this operation, gave an affirmative for team Foxtrot. A black car parked at the end of the Jelicksons' block started up and raced off.

“Alpha to Sierra 3 and Sierra 4, report.”

“All clear,” Ernie said.

Dave's voice blasted across the radio before I could answer. “He keeps cutting us off. He's weaving back and forth across the road. He presents a danger to us and oncoming traffic.”

“Use any necessary force,” Hale said.

“Oh, shit,” Dave said. “He's run off the road on his own. Shit, shit.” In the background I could hear grinding metal. “He's crashed through one of the concrete barriers, and stopped.”

My teeth chattered—the rain was sliding into the small gaps in my clothes—and I clamped them shut so I could hear everything: Dave's door opened and closed, and then a second door slammed. They were now on foot. They were voices in the night, remote in space, and I wanted to be there.

“Craig's out of his car and he's . . . he's . . .” Dave panted. “Craig's fallen.”

“Approach with care,” Hale said.

“He's injured,” Bailey reported. “Batko! He might be armed!”

“It's going to be okay, Craig”—Dave's voice now, low and soothing. “C'mon. Okay? You can hear me, right? You did such a good job tonight, you were a pro, c'mon, hang on.” Gentle and sweet, and then frantically to someone else. “Get an ambulance here. He's going into shock. He's not breathing.”

“Foxtrot to Alpha,” came a voice.
Tran,
I thought. “We've radioed for an ambulance.”

“Alpha to Foxtrot, are you on scene?” demanded Hale.

“Affirmative. First-aid kit being delivered to Officer Batko, and I'm directing traffic, directing the ambulance to the scene.”

“Step away from that boy, Batko,” growled Bailey. “I'm not kidding.”

“I can't, I can't,” Dave said. “Do you see—”

“I'm not dicking around here.” And if Sam was slipping into profanity on official channels things
were
bad. “Bravo to Alpha, we've got a biohazard situation here. Yellow dust all over the vehicle. Craig opened the box.”

My mind raced, thinking of what it might be. Anthrax? Ricin? Chemical or biological? And Dave was right there, exposed.

“I can't leave,” Dave said. “He's . . . I've got to intubate him. He's not breathing.”

I smacked the bricks next to me, furious that Dave was without me in this.

“I'm exposed. The yellow stuff's on me—my hands, my face”—and now Dave was breathing harshly. Were his lungs shutting down already?

“Drop the first-aid kit right there—there!—and get back!” I was relieved to hear him shout.

I could see the lights from an emergency vehicle right on the edge of town. The city couldn't afford its own ambulance service and so relied on the surrounding cities to provide emergency support. This one was coming in from Watervliet. The radio was filled with the sounds of everyone in crisis mode: estimated time of arrival on the ambulance; communications with EMTs that they should bring their protective clothing and respirators; Hale ordering half the folks at the decontamination unit set up at the glove factory to drive to the scene and isolate Craig's car posthaste, and demanding reports from all the agents still on post in quick succession; and Dave trying desperately, frantically, to keep Craig alive.

“The tube, it's stopped,” Dave said. “I can't push it farther. ETA on the ambulance?”

“Sixty seconds,” said Tran.

I broke in over the radio, desperate to do something. “Is he still wearing his med-alert necklace?”

“June! Lyons. Yeah, it's here. It's engraved. I can't . . . I can't read it.”

I could hear the sound of the ambulance in the background and the shouts of the EMT personnel, close and telling Dave to clear out.

“Any idea what our toxin is?”

“No idea,” Dave said. “I'm not reacting, and I've been exposed as long as he was when he went down.”

I listened as Dave narrated the action to Hale. His voice was steady, no giveaway wheeze or cough, and I refrained from demanding he give me updates on his own health: “They did a tracheotomy. They got a tube down. They're moving out with him and he's not breathing on his own.”

“Alpha to Foxtrot. What's the status of antiterrorism team?” Hale asked.

“Albany office has deployed their WMD coordinator,” Tran said.

“Bailey to Alpha. Texts came in on Madigan's phone. Text one from Jackie DeGroot, asking for a ride, and text two from Ray Jelickson . . .”

We have Ray's phone
, I thought, and then remembered the one Marty had kept. I listened for the rest, but the siren on the ambulance roared up in the background, making it impossible to hear.

“Alpha to Sierra 4, switch over to channel 3.”

I hit my earpiece.

“Hello!” Annie said. “Hello, is someone there?”

After listening in on the FBI radios all evening, the hiss of Annie's cell phone was jarring, bringing me crashing back to earth.

“Annie, you're on Craig?”

“On my way. They packed us into the back of this van—we don't all have seat belts!—and hustled us off to a bioterror site.”

“Annie, Dave's at that scene.”

“What? Is he exposed?”

“Yes.”

“Dave has made me want to stab myself in the head less than most people. I'll do everything I can.”

I relaxed the smallest bit. Knowing that Annie would be there, charging through social niceties to solve the case, was oddly comforting.

“I obtained some DNA results on your clothes and boots.”

I held the phone close to my head—the static on Annie's cell phone coupled with the sound of rain made it so I was sure I heard wrong.

“Wait. Boots, too?” I said. “They were found yesterday.”

“I could've had them sooner, but I got secondary confirmation. Even though he's second rate, he's not so stupid he can't check my work.”

“Tell me.”

“The clothes found at the Brouillettes' and the hat found in the Dumpster? The DNA was the same, and both matched the guy.”

I felt a jolt. Maybe I'd been wrong. “Marty?” I asked.

“The other one. Jason.”

“What?” I said, and heard a low “No way” from Hale. I hadn't thought that anyone who had a tell like Jason's—he blushed if he even
thought
something uncharitable—would be able to snow everyone.

“I
said
one of the sets matched Jason. But some other hair, a longer hair, was recovered, too. Did Jason ever have long hair?”

“No. Not his.” I ran over the people I thought of as suspects in the case: Craig's touched his shoulders, as did Chuck's, and then there were Jackie and the congresswoman. I asked her to clarify. “What color is the hair?”

“Jelickson's blood saturated the strand, but color was in the range of dark blond to light red.”

“And the boots? Was his DNA on the boots?”

“That's the other thing. I identified some skin cells, not Ray's, on the edge, on the lip of the boot. Not Jason. A woman.”

“So our killer is a woman?”

“Figuring that out is your job. My job is to confirm that yes, a woman wore the boots.” I heard her panting.

“All right. I'm here!” she yelled.

“Annie, can you hold on a second?”

“No. I've got to go save Dave. We're done.”

I hesitated before switching the channel, listening to the streets below. I could hear the shouts of the Merrimen, bouncing off all the close buildings, becoming wilder, angrier, the result of drink and, probably, meth.

I inhaled, the wind rushing into my lungs. Over the men's shouts I caught the sound of something sweeter. A song.

And when Christmas passed you kept it hangin',

Kept claiming all my kisses.

But by Valentine's you found another girl

And by Easter she was missus.

I raised the binoculars to my eyes and began searching for Barbara, methodically tracing up and down the line of streets. I heard where she was before I saw her.

“Hey there, old lady,” yelled the big biker, Tiny. I pinpointed him in my sight, catching the patches on his jacket, the knife in his belt, and his boots, steel toed and more than capable of crushing a skull. He grabbed his crotch. “I got your Valentine right here. C'mere.”

Barbara Merry Christmas went.

I
TRIED TO STAY IN
position.
I tried
. My eyes scanned back and forth, from the ring of benches glowing white even in the pitch black, to where Barbara was approaching the bikers and their fiery pits. One of the bikers fished out a few coals from his barrel with his leather-gloved hands and whipped them at Barbara, aiming for her face. He missed, but hit her coat.

I skidded across the roof and threw open the mill's door. In the face of the endless blackness of the inside of the mill, I switched on my flashlight.