Takedown (8 page)

G
avin was waist-deep in murky Nassau Pond, backing up the steep incline to the shore, feet slipping, struggling to hold a limp,
well-dressed man from behind, as if doing a Heimlich maneuver on him, when two firemen rushed to his side and relieved him
of his burden.

“Is he alive, Detective?” one of the firemen asked.

“Maybe. I… don’t know,” Gavin said, looking back at the train wreck, four double-decker passenger cars twisted, half crushed,
folded upon each other like sausage links in a shallow pan of water, the locomotive completely submerged. Most of the screams
had eerily quieted to whispers and groans. Emergency workers were frantically trying to run a crane cable through the windows.

He hadn’t seen so much activity on the North Shore of Nassau County since Avianca flight 052 ran out of gas and crashed in
the woods of Cove Neck, leaving seventy-three dead. By some miracle, most of the passengers here were alive, but the injury
list was not light.

With no water or road access, hospital, police, National Guard, and Coast Guard helicopters were flying in and out of the
dim sunset over the large pond like bees from a hive. Firemen and rescue workers traveled through the narrow bird sanctuary
trails. Long Island Railroad flatbed utility trucks served as makeshift ambulances on one track, while the other track had
been used to bring in a
crane and massive road construction lights, making the immediate area look like a Hollywood shoot.

“Well, so much for an undisturbed scene,” said a familiar voice from behind.

“Huh?” Gavin turned.

“You believe this?” Chris said, stepping into the water to help Gavin out.

“No.”

“See any Feds yet?” Chris reached out his hand for Gavin to grab.

“Haven’t seen any, but they’ll be here.” Gavin motioned in the direction of the wreck. “Probably want to know why we don’t
have the black box yet.”

“Black box?”

“Yeah… like planes. Trains have ’em, too.”

“Hmm, I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I. Railroad guy told me.”

“Just as long as the Feds didn’t tell you. They’d never let you forget it.”

“Ah, they never tell us anything.”

Just then the crane engine throttled up, and the cable started tightening through the passenger-car window. Slowly—squeaking,
scraping—the silver mass inched upward, then stopped.

Gavin shook his head. “Gonna be a long night.”

Chris sighed. “And just what this area needs.”

“What’s that?”

“Another taste of terrorism.”

“Tastes domestic to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The choice of target, for one. A train leaving Oyster Bay is not exactly a national symbol, like the Trade Center.”

“Neither are jet airliners, but they’ve been targets often enough.”

“True, but the absence of an explosion makes me think we’re dealing with one, maybe two guys. Terrorist groups, both foreign
and domestic, prefer bombs. They have access to the stuff, don’t have to get their hands too dirty, the results are more predictable,
and explosions seem to strike more terror… And then there’s that glove.”

“What about it?”

“Domestic. When was the last time you saw someone who was calling for a jihad against the great Satan give the finger?
That
wouldn’t be ‘holy.’”

Chris nodded. “Honest, yes. Holy, no. Maybe we’ll find some prints inside.”

Gavin shook his head. “Not likely. Fingers are flat, stuck together. Looks like there’s some kind of greasy substance inside.”

“Why didn’t he just bring a third glove and leave that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he watches too much TV.”

“You get a chance to see the rest of the stuff up there?”

“Not really. Is it taped off yet?” Gavin remembered the orders he’d given to an Officer John Kelly.

“Yeah, but we’d better get up there. There’s enough manpower now for this end.”

Gavin heard what Chris was trying to tell him, but it was hard to leave. He took another look at the pond and then at the
pileup. His first duty as a policeman, not to mention his first instincts as a person, was to people and property. But now
help was everywhere, and he figured he should best set his sights on the hunt.

Gavin—his clothes heavy from pond water, wondering if tadpoles were in his shoes, glad of his decision to leave his sport
jacket and wallet in the car—fought the brush and sliding gravel to the top of the tracks where the rail had been cut and
spread apart. The train had destroyed the track beyond the point of derailment, but from the separation backward, the track
was in perfect condition.
For the first time since he had arrived, Gavin felt the liberty to leave the rescuing to the designated personnel and enter
detective mode.

He looked in the direction the train would have come from. Nearby were dozens of occupied stretchers lying perpendicular on
the rails, some with sheets drawn completely over the bodies, some with survivors being worked on by paramedics. There was
also a priest, kneeling, holding a hand. The sight of the cleric with short white hair momentarily hijacked Gavin’s thoughts.
Made him think about Buck. He quickly shook it off.

A hundred feet away two firemen rushed up the embankment with a semiconscious woman, yelling for paramedics to help, one of
them shouting, “She’s pregnant!”

Gavin didn’t remember getting there, but he suddenly found himself at their side. Her summer dress was shredded. He didn’t
see any obvious bleeding or compound fractures, but her bruised arms cradled her belly as she moaned painfully, gasping out
occasionally in Spanish. Her tangled black hair, scraped and dirty dark skin, and slight figure despite advanced pregnancy
stirred Gavin’s imagination enough to scare his racing heart.
But for the grace of God there be Amy,
he heard his mind say. He couldn’t remember where or how many times he’d heard those weirdly familiar words, but his mind
seized upon them and inserted Amy’s name, and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
Where is the grace of God for this one?
he countered to himself.

Two paramedics swooped in, one of them stepping between Gavin and the woman as if he weren’t there. He barely noticed them,
his mind still having a hard time placing Amy and his own unborn child at home, safe.

“What’s happening?” Chris asked, arriving at his side.

Gavin refocused, shook it off. “It’s under control,” he said, then started back, probably leaving Chris a little confused.
This really
wasn’t his job. The woman was getting plenty of attention, and he was needed elsewhere.

“Freaked ya out, huh?” said Chris, walking the track just behind him.

“What?”

“Made you think of Amy, didn’t she?” Chris went on, surprising Gavin that he’d put it together.

“Who?”

Chris snorted. “I read you like a book, Pierce.”

“Who are you,
Doctor
Grella?”

“Like—a—book.”

“Shut up and focus on this,” Gavin said, approaching the place where the rail was cut.

Gavin stepped into a small corral created by the yellow police tape. Chris passed him, murmuring something about a conversation
Gavin was no longer having. He needed to empty his mind of the tragedy around him and objectively zone in on what could have
happened here a few hours ago. He turned, looking beyond the immediate activity of emergency workers, stretchers, and artificial
lights. His eye followed the track until it disappeared around a bend. According to one of the survivors, the train’s horn
had been blaring before the derailment. Apparently the engineer had seen something or someone on the track. He tried to envision
the train’s approach. He followed the track through the many stretchers until he was looking down at his feet, then turned
and continued, his eyes on the rail.

“Who do you think this finger’s for?” Chris said.

“Huh?”

“The glove.”

“Oh… probably you.”

“Me?”

“To whom it may concern,” Gavin said, slipping on his own pair of latex gloves. He crouched down and picked up what looked
like
half a C-clamp cut clean through—by a train wheel, Gavin figured. He noticed the clamp’s other half a few feet away, a short
piece of cut cable welded to it.

“What do you make of that?” Chris said.

“Someone did their homework. The rail carries a safe signal to the cab of any approaching train. A break in the signal, whether
the engineer is alert enough to realize it or not, will automatically cause the train to slow to a safe speed. This little
cable kept that signal alive with the rail cut. We’ll probably find the other half in the drink attached to a similar clamp,”
Gavin said, putting the severed clamp back exactly where he’d found it. He looked carefully at what appeared to be two modified
hydraulic jacks.

“I get the creepy feeling we’re dealing with someone who enjoys his work,” Chris said.

Gavin nodded. “Craft might be more like it. This wasn’t spur of the moment. Someone had to get the jacks, maybe at more than
one location, maybe ordered, since not every hardware store is going to carry a large supply of sixteen-ton jacks. The pipes
are cut smoothly… to exact lengths… no shims. Welds look clean, possibly professional.”

Chris crouched and examined what appeared to be two attached fire extinguishers, each tank about a foot and a half long and
four inches around. “Cute. A mini torch kit.”

“Did the job,” Gavin said as he picked up a blue tube the same color as the two jacks between the rails, black rubber handle
at one end.

“The lever?” Chris asked.

“Yeah,” Gavin replied, studying the lever. Like most, its bottom was shaped to match the male release screw on the jack. Looking
back at the jacks, he noticed that one of them was loose. At first he thought the loosening of the jack had been caused by
the derailment, but considering the pressure needed to split open the rail, he
fit the lever onto the relief valve and turned. Nothing. The pressure had already been released. He stared, frowning at the
jack for a long moment. Confused, he fitted the lever to the other jack and turned. The jack decompressed and the train rail
followed, halving the distance it had been widened from its original alignment. Why did one jack have pressure and the other
none?

“Two more jacks over here, Gav,” Chris called from a few yards away. “They seem to be in good shape. Maybe they were extras.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if the train threw them, I would think there would be some damage to them, bent or gashed. But they’re perfectly straight.
Then again, if they
are
extras, why aren’t they together? Why is one here and the other there? He takes all this care and leaves his hard work scattered?”

Gavin frowned, joining Chris with the lever in hand. He checked the relief valves of the third and fourth jacks. Nothing.
Each had been decompressed.

“Detective!” called a voice from below, a little farther down the track. Officer Kelly was standing just outside the treeline
of the bird sanctuary motioning a flashlight. “Down here.”

Gavin returned the lever to where he had found it, then set off after Chris, already near the bottom of the hill. The officer
waited for Chris, then led him into the trees. When Gavin caught up, Chris and the officer were standing still, looking down,
silent.

“Looks like we have a witness,” Chris finally said as Gavin stepped by his side. “How do you explain… so many… ?”

Gavin said nothing.

“I don’t know,” Kelly said as if he’d been asked. “Looks like he was fighting some Ninjas with swords. Or was attacked by
some kind of wild—”

“Stop,” Chris ordered Kelly, which was much nicer than what Gavin was about to say.

“Anyone have a wet rag?” Gavin asked.

“A wet rag?” Kelly repeated.

“No,” Chris said.

Gavin thought of using one of his wet socks, but almost immediately decided it would somehow screw up the forensics. “Let’s
see that flashlight, Kelly.”

Gavin took the handoff and moved in for a closer look. Chris followed.

“This is an
A
,” Gavin said, drawing with his finger, inches above the man’s chest.

“Is this a
T
?” Chris asked, pointing to what appeared to be another letter.

Gavin said nothing, wishing he could wipe the blood off to see more clearly. Any thought that the Feds might take over and
run away with the investigation was now seriously challenged. This was a clear homicide. A man—big, athletic, late twenties,
early thirties—leaning back on an old tree stump as if napping, six evenly spaced punctures across his neck. His gray workout
shirt torn open, and what first appeared to be random slashing and dripping red lines across his bare chest were letters with
numbers etched underneath.

“Another message?” Chris asked.

Gavin just stared, trying to differentiate between blood and gash.

“I don’t get it,” Kelly said. “Act! Two thousand, seven hundred, and forty-two.”

Gavin nodded. “Not bad, Kelly.”

“Is that
act
as in a call to action or
act
as in theater segments?” Chris wondered aloud.

“Kelly, let’s get this area taped before anyone else tramples down here,” Gavin ordered, getting down on one knee for a different
angle.

“Right,” Kelly said. But still transfixed on the sight before him, he didn’t move until Gavin glanced up at him. The officer
nodded and disappeared.

“Kelly,” Gavin yelled over his shoulder.

The officer reappeared.

“There’s a priest up by the stretchers.”

“Right, I saw him.”

“Get him. Tell him to bring his Bible.”

“Did you say Bible?” Kelly said, frowning.

Y
es, Bible,” Gavin said, not wanting to explain, fixated on the victim. The deep, clean slices in the man’s skin spoke of a
razor-sharp blade, and the neck punctures brought an image to mind of a knife that looked a lot more like a weapon than a
tool— probably sharpened religiously, he thought. The lack of blood dripping from the message meant the victim had been dead
when the letters were carved. At least that’s what he hoped the medical examiner would tell him.

Chris said, “Talk to me,” or something like that.

“This is a Scripture, Chris. That’s not an exclamation point after
act
, it’s an
s
.”

“And the two thousand, sev—”

“Is twenty-seven, forty-two. Acts twenty-seven, forty-two.”

“What Scripture is that?”

Gavin gave Chris a look. “Do I look like a priest?”

“Uhhh… no.”

“Here, take this light and shine it down here.” Gavin pointed to one of the man’s pockets. Chris took the light and Gavin
patted the pocket, reached in, and pulled out a jingling set of keys with a remote attached to the ring.

“Maybe he’s sitting on a wallet,” Chris suggested.

Gavin reached around and found there were no rear pockets. “Nothing. Somewhere there’s a… let’s see,” he said, looking at
the
ignition key. “There’s a Toyota parked and it’s probably got his wallet in it. Shouldn’t be too hard to find with this remote.”

“He looks like a jogger, but those aren’t running shoes.”

Gavin frowned at the dirty white sneakers and socks, then felt the socks between his fingers. “Wet… like mine.”

“Maybe he was bird-watching and saw the guy working on the tracks… ran through some water to get to him?”

“Why leave your wallet behind to go bird-watching? He was probably out here… I don’t know, doing something, but I think you’re
right about him sighting the perp.”

The sound of gravel crunching caught Gavin’s attention. Another bobbing flashlight—no, not one, but two bobbing flashlights
were approaching. One was attached to Officer Kelly. The priest Gavin had seen on the tracks had the other.

“This is Father Lauer, sir,” Kelly said, holding a branch back for the priest to enter. He was younger than Gavin had thought,
his white hair making him look older from a distance.

“Thanks for coming down, Father. I’m Detective Grella and this is Detective Pi—”

“Oh, Lord Jesus!” the priest gasped and then made the sign of the cross upon seeing the man with the message.

“Do you have a Bible?” Gavin said bluntly, but the priest was apparently too shocked to hear him.

“A Bible, Father?” Chris asked more politely.

“Huh… oh yes, of course. Here,” Father Lauer said, extending a leather-bound book toward Chris.

“Why don’t you just read it for us?” Gavin said, his gaze back on the victim. He knew the book was in the New Testament but
didn’t know where.

“Read it?”

“Acts twenty-seven, forty-two,” Gavin said.

“Acts…”

Gavin pointed to the dead man’s chest and drew in the air with his finger as he read each letter and number. The more he looked
at it, the more obvious the letters became.

“My God!” Father Lauer said, apparently seeing the ugly slashes come into focus. “Okay, okay, okay,” he said quietly as he
flipped through thin pages. “Twenty-six… twenty-seven… forty… here it is. Forty-two.” He cleared his throat. “‘And the
soldiers’ plan was to kill all the prisoners, that none of them should swim away and escape.’”

Silence.

“Read it again,” Gavin said.

Father Lauer frowned slightly, then cleared his throat again and complied.

“May I?” Gavin asked.

“Certainly,” Father Lauer said, handing him his Bible, holding his finger on the verse.

Gavin read it over and over to himself, the background noises fading out as he read. No one said a word. Finally, he looked
up at Chris. “I don’t get it.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “What’s not to get? Seems perfectly obvious. He’s the soldier, the prisoners were the people on
the train, and his plan was to kill them in the water.”

“Soldiers,” Kelly scoffed. “Whose army?”

Gavin looked at Kelly but didn’t say anything.

“I think I’ll get this place taped off,” Kelly said.

“Thanks, Kell,” Chris said with a thin smile.

Gavin shook his head, then looked toward the priest. “Were you familiar with that verse?”

“Well, not from the verse number, but I am familiar with the passage.”

Gavin looked back at the victim, still shaking his head. “Okay, this guy surprises our—”

“Soldier?” Father Lauer said, unblinking.

Chris’s brow rose expectantly.

“Soldier,” Gavin said with a gracious wave. “They fight. Soldier kills him. Quickly, judging by the lack of other wounds on
him. But this victim wasn’t in the plan. He was a detour. Soldier came here to derail a train, not read the Bible, and he’s
got to be in a major hurry to leave. But before he leaves, he spontaneously decides to leave a message, to whom I’m not sure,
with this obscure verse out of context. I mean, what kind of verse is
this
to commit to memory? Who
is
this guy?”

No one answered.

A flashlight was approaching. Kelly was back with the tape.

“FMIs and AMTs are here, Detective,” Kelly called from a few yards away, referring to the forensic crew and medical technicians.
He stopped to open a roll of yellow tape. “Oh, and one of the survivors happens to be the engineer.”

“You’re kidding!” Chris said.

“No. He claims to have jumped from the locomotive. He’s in the ICU at Saint Francis.”

“How bad?” Gavin asked.

“I don’t know.”

Gavin turned to Chris. “Why don’t you head up there and tell the techs what we’ve got down here. And leave me that flashlight.
There’s something else I want to check out.”

“You got it,” Chris said and left.

Father Lauer turned to follow after Chris, but Gavin reached for his arm. “Uh, Father?” he asked, without his usual all-business
demeanor.

“Yes?”

Gavin looked to see where Kelly was, making sure the officer and anyone else was out of earshot.

“What is it, my son?”

“If I ask you a question, can it be just between you and me?”

“And God. Would you like to confess something?”

Gavin nodded. “Yeah, I mean, no. I mean… do you believe… have you ever had any experience with… demons?”

The priest’s expression turned to one of concern as he studied Gavin’s face. He looked at the victim, the poor man who had
probably tried to stop the soldier. Then his gaze returned to Gavin.

“I don’t mean
this,
” Gavin said intensely. “Have you ever experienced demons living in people… or animals?”

The priest thought for a moment. “Have you been seeing demons, Detective?”

Buck would not have asked that,
was Gavin’s first thought. Buck would have immediately known what he was talking about. Suddenly demons were the last thing
Gavin wanted to talk about. He felt embarrassed and wished he had not mentioned it. What was he thinking? He should know better
than to ever talk about this with anyone, not even a priest. “Forget it.”

“Detective?”

“Come on. I’ll walk you out of here.”

“Wait,” Father Lauer said, now grabbing Gavin by the arm. “I’m sorry. The answer to your question is yes. Please tell me what’s
on your mind.”

“Do you have a card?”

“Yes,” the priest said, fishing for a wallet.

Gavin took the card without looking at it and put it in his wet pocket. “I’ll call you,” he said, then left, Father Lauer
following close behind. When he broke the treeline Gavin stopped, a thought forming that would not allow him to leave.

“What’s the matter, Detective?”

“Huh… oh, nothing. I need to get back to work.” Gavin jerked his chin toward the sounds of the yelling paramedics up by the
stretchers. “Sounds like you’re needed up there.”

The priest nodded. “We’ll have to finish our conversation later,” he said, his feet starting in the direction of his calling.

“Yeah, later.”

“Call,” the priest said as he struggled up to the tracks and stretchers.

Gavin stayed behind at the edge of the treeline. He didn’t answer, didn’t listen, shutting the priest off as he would an infomercial
with his TV remote. Click, gone. He needed to get back to work.
Focus. Think.
He looked down the treeline, away from the train wreck, and then into the woods where Kelly was taping the crime scene. How
many different directions could the soldier have fled?

Crunching gravel and bobbing flashlights made Gavin turn. It was Chris with the forensic techs.

“Right through there.” Chris motioned with his light beam. “Watch your step.”

The techs followed Chris’s directions and were quickly in their element. No gasps or stunned silence from those guys. No matter
how gruesome or shocking the scene, they engaged in their usual deadpan humor. The only thing Gavin found amazing about them
anymore was that they never grew tired of the same jokes. They must teach them at forensics school, he’d decided.

Gavin refocused his attention back to the dark, quiet treeline at the bottom of the tracks, away from the noise of the crane,
choppers, hustling emergency workers, Feds, and the priest who wanted to play doctor with Gavin’s mind.

“—body home?”

Gavin turned. Chris. “What?”

“Hello… I said, ‘Is there anybody home?’You’ve got that faraway look.”

“He was probably leaving.”

“When he met our friend back there? Yes.”

“And he was probably leaving the same way he came.”

“Yes, more than likely.”

“So if he came from this side of the track, he was probably waiting for the train somewhere along here.”

“I’ll buy that. But why this train? If he simply wanted to derail a train, he could have more easily done it from the other
side of the bridge. The access to the sanctuary paths is easier over there, and he wouldn’t have had to carry all that equipment
up as steep an incline.”

Gavin nodded. “Let’s walk,” he said, motioning into the dark. “I agree. This train may have held a particular attraction for
him.”

“Any thoughts?” Chris asked as his flashlight joined Gavin’s, slowly scanning the ground and treeline as they walked away
from the wreck, looking, searching for that lost car key, that wallet, that coin… something he would have touched before
putting those latex gloves on.

“Only the obvious. Six-o’clock train. Rush hour. People going home from work. I’m not familiar enough with Oyster Bay employment
to know who would be on this train, but I would think that a good place to start.”

“What about the glove?” Chris asked.

“What about it?”

“The ointment inside to prevent fingerprints.”

“I noticed. A lot of work to go through when he could have just used a different glove.”

“Exactly. He thinks too much. Very creative, but not much experience. It was close to ninety degrees today. Can you imagine
how uncomfortable it would have been to wear that glove?”

“Uncomfortable enough to not put it on until he had to,” Gavin said.

Chris smiled. “Which is why we’re looking for where he waited while waiting for the train.”

“Yes. He may have been waiting for a long time, making sure no one saw him enter. Maybe reading a book, chewing gum.”

“Taking a dump is what I’d be doing if I were going to derail a—”

“Look at this,” Gavin said, holding his beam on the gravel hillside.

Chris’s light joined in. “What?”

“The gravel all along here has been smoothed.” They got closer. “Footprints.”

“Looks more like a landslide.”

“Remember, he was carrying sixty, seventy pounds of gear. The climb would have been rough.” Gavin shook his head, trying to
make sense of the disturbance.

Chris turned. “That would mean he came out somewhere around here.”

Gavin followed Chris’s lead to the treeline, where both men stopped, their flashlights beaming a sneak peek of where they
would search for more clues in the light of day.

“Okay, so he waits for the train to go by and starts up to the track.” Chris used his flashlight to follow the would-be footsteps.
“Heavy prints. And it looks like he was having trouble around there. Maybe had to rest, or he slid back, or fell dow—”

“Wait,” Gavin interrupted, beaming his light to a place Chris had just passed. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“That!” Gavin said, moving closer. A moment later they were both crouched over what appeared to be a crumpled, empty cigarette
pack.

“Looks fresh enough, not waterlogged or dirty. Maybe it got away from him when he fell.”

“Got a pen or something?” Gavin looked about to find a twig to pick it up with.

“Of course I do,” Chris said. He opened a pocketknife, slid it
into the pack, picked it up, and displayed it between them, the word
Camel
visible as he turned it. “Being prepared is a big part of the job. It’s what separates the real pros from the—”

“Just shut up,” Gavin said as he eyed the pack closely. “Now this here could be pre-glove.”

“Oh no,” Chris said soberly, his chin pointed in the direction of the derailment. “The long night just got longer.”

Gavin turned and took a moment before he saw him and groaned. “I thought I told you to put up the No Politicians sign.”

“I did. He must have taken it down on his way in.”

Senator Bruce Sweeney appeared to be setting up for another one of his political photo shoots. The presidential election was
a year and a half away, but it was quite obvious that it was never too early to get started campaigning, even though Sweeney
denied any interest in the candidacy.

“No class,” Chris said, shaking his head. “There should be a law that disqualifies anyone who thinks he should be the most
powerful person on earth from being able to collect votes.”

“Then how would anyone become president of the United States?”

“Everyone just votes for whoever they want to and the one with the most votes is president, whether they like it or not.”