The Eighth Day (26 page)

“WHEN CAN I GET A DRINK?” Janice said, smiling at the attendant.

“Soon as we are airborne, Ma’am.”

Janice had taken the seat up front in the little Air Force jet that she and the Admiral and Kronos, who were already asleep in the rear, were suddenly ordered to take back to Washington, D.C., without warning. She was amazed how fast the plane went from the passenger terminal into the air, as if it just jumped into the heavens the second the door was closed. This proved what she always thought about commercial air flight—they just made you wait because they could.

Her Campari and soda smoothed over the cracks in her parched throat. She considered opening the folder holding the psych analysis of two more perpetrators, but thought better of it. Instead, she flipped off the overhead light, hit the seat button, and pushed back as the jet climbed through the clouds almost vertically.

As the scene outside her window flickered from the last remaining layer of cloud to what at first looked like cotton as far as the eye could see, she thought of her mom. What would she say if she saw her now? Here she was, a whole jet at her disposal, doing important lifesaving work, answering the call of her country when her country needed her most. Eunice Tyler would probably find something wrong. Some small detail Janice had overlooked. Anything from the shoes she chose to go with her outfit to the shade of her mascara to just the sheer extravagance of the whole situation. “
But Mom, I need to get there to do my job for the nation. You want me to fly standby because it’s cheaper?
” She had noticed in the past that every negative-thought voice in her head sounded like her mother.

The fact that Janice and her mother didn’t get along was no secret. The reason, however, was a little harder to discern, even though her college and professional associates were convinced it was due to a rift arising from her parents’ divorce. They made that prognosis during the self-analysis and group critiquing that was the first and most basic training psych majors underwent on their way to their doctorates. But what she never shared, because she herself was only recently made aware of it, was the true reason.

“Mr. Biffles” was a silly name for a dog, but that’s what little eight-year-old Janice Tyler wanted to call this raggedy Scottish terrier her father got her for her birthday. Mr. Biffles soon became the first object of love in little Janice’s life. He slept at the foot of her bed, waited for her to come home from school, cried when she cried, even ate when she ate. Sometimes, to her mom’s consternation, from her plate. Mr. Biffles was her doll, her baby, and her best friend.

One day Mr. Biffles’s leash broke. Her mother, never one to waste a cent, decided that there was no reason to
spend perfectly good money
on a new leash. She simply took a twist tie from the box of garbage bags and attached the leash to the collar with it. Out the door went Mr. Biffles and Janice for his afternoon walk. A block from the house, a Labrador retriever was strutting down the street on the long leash of its owner. Mr. Biffles caught sight of the Lab and started barking and pulling at the leash. “No, Mr. Biffles, stay,” was reinforced by the usual sharp tug on the leash. Only this time the flimsy wire tie broke. Mr. Biffles, sensing freedom from the restraint, bolted across the street, right into the path of an oncoming car. The yelp the little dog made as he was run over echoed in her ears. She could still hear it. On that afternoon, little Janice Tyler learned two terrible lessons from life. They were indelibly etched in her psyche and would take years to correct. The first: if you love something it will die and go away, so never admit that you love anything. The second: being
frugal
sucks!

The next major developmental step on the way to becoming a psychologist came when she was sixteen and her father gave her, against her mother’s wishes, her first phone. It was a pink princess phone. While the phones of that day were big, bulky, and usually black, the princess was a cute oval design with the handset spanning an illuminated dial in the middle. It was
the
girl’s phone. Her mother’s fears were realized as Janice spent hours on it with her girlfriends.
Talking god knows what
, her mother would complain. What Eunice Tyler could never have fathomed, however, were the many nights and afternoons Janice spent with her friends on the phone as she first listened, then dispensed advice. Through these first “sessions” she discovered a natural gift for understanding the human condition.

When she was nineteen, Jimmy Shea was her crush, her love, and her boyfriend. Janice also became enamored with Jim’s mother. She was a psychiatrist. In the Midwestern town where Janice grew up, it was rare for a woman to be a professional. And she was divorced! There was a television show back then called
One Day at a Time
. To the media mongers in New York and L.A., it was a timely situation comedy about a single divorced woman wrestling with her career and kids. In Janice’s hometown, seemingly locked in the fifties, it was pure science fiction.

Being a doctor meant Mrs. Shea made a good income. Jim had a nice car, and their house was three times bigger than Janice’s. Young Janice also noticed and admired Jim’s mom’s confidence and that she never quibbled over anything as trivial as money.

When Jim broke up with her, Janice was devastated. Sadly, the girl who had helped all her friends solve their emotional dilemmas really had nowhere to turn when her own love life came crashing down around her ankle bracelet. Oddly enough it was Jim’s mother who talked her through it. Her wise advice and explanations of what Janice was going through taught her that being a psychiatrist was a good thing; you really could help people and psychiatrists made a ton of money. Enough money to never have to be frugal, stingy, or just plain cheap. With Mrs. Shea’s help, Janice had found her path.

As the whine of the engines lulled her to sleep, forty-five-year-old Janice Tyler, now the lead psychological investigator into the worst terrorist attack America had ever suffered, drifted off to sleep. Her last conscious thoughts were of Mr. Biffles and how he would tenaciously clamp his teeth into his tug toy and never relent, even if you picked him straight up in the air with it. Actually, she realized, that must have been the part he loved most—going straight up.

Hiccock learned that the U.S. Air Force plane rides, which he had ordered up like taxicabs, cost $18,000 for each coast-to-coast flight. At least in this particular case, he thought that Uncle Sam’s money was well spent. The message he planned to deliver to his team required more than a phone call. He had them flown “ultra class” to Washington from their temporary base at Admiral Parks’s home.

In the cold, featureless gray of the FBI’s Electronic Crime Lab, Hiccock peered into their faces trying to convince himself that what he was about to say was the best possible scenario. “I can’t divulge all the details at this time but I need to tell you our investigation is over.” As Hiccock expected, Tyler, Kronos, and the Admiral were mildly shocked by the news, but he noticed Hansen was not.

“Hansen, did you know about this?”

“I got the word twenty minutes ago that your subliminal machine is to be disconnected and moved to Datacom Systems.”

“What’s Datacom?”

“They are one of our subcontractors. Once an investigative phase is over, we farm out any special equipment that has evidentiary value to them. They are bonded and continue the chain of evidence during the trial phase.”

“I see. That way your FBI lab doesn’t get overrun with Justice Department lawyers looking for every angle.”

“Exactly. And don’t forget the defense attorneys. They bring in the proctoscopes.”

Hiccock looked around. “Well, people, the only thing I can tell you is that we will all know in less than twenty-four hours. I want to thank each of you. You’ve been so great to work with and I’m sure what we have discovered in this project will go a long way in convicting the guilty.”

“Yo, thanks, Hiccock. It was a real trip working with you, too.”

“Same here, Kronos, a
real
trip.”

“Back into the Washington regimen now, Bill?” Henrietta asked.

“Admiral, I don’t know. I think I made a few enemies here and without the head of the bad guy hanging off my belt, I am going to be walking a very tight rope.”

“Well, Bill, I think you are a well-balanced individual,” Tyler said, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Janice. So here’s the way it will go from here. We will all be staying in Washington to prepare our final report. That should take about three weeks. Then you’ll be able to get back to your lives.”

“That’s great, I get to go back to the big El,” Kronos said sarcastically. “Can’t you put in a good word for me?”

“I’ll see if I can get Reynolds to call the warden at Elmira … see what they might work out. I guess we’ll move into my offices at the White House. I figure we’ll leave for there in about a half hour.”

With that, the Admiral headed for the ladies’ room. Kronos walked off with Hansen. Left alone, Hiccock’s eyes met Janice’s. “I’m sorry I took you away from your patients.”

“Not at all. I redefined a rare branch of behavioral study … ‘bi-stable concurrent schizophrenia.’ That should be good for a couple of papers, maybe even some grants … hell, a book deal!”

“Once the trial is over,” Hiccock added, finger pointed in the air, reminding her of the national security implications of their work.

“Once the trial is over. Yes.”

An awkward moment passed between them. Odd, Hiccock thought, for two people who were married to have an uneasy moment. Out of impulse, he put his arms around her and gave her a hug. She hugged back. Hiccock took a deep breath. Her hair smelled great and she felt good in his arms. “I could never have made it this far without you. I just want you to know I really appreciate your working for me as graciously and as professionally as you have.”

Janice pushed back slightly from Hiccock’s embrace to make eye contact. “No less than you did for me, even though I was too self-absorbed and focused on my research to say ‘thank you’ back then.”

“We are still a pretty good team, aren’t we?” Hiccock smoothed her hair back the way he always did.

“Yeah. If we could only be this good in our personal lives.”

“I thought …”

Janice put her finger over his lips. “Don’t ruin this little feel-good session, okay, boss?”

“Okay, former boss.”

Shit
. Joey Palumbo hated what he had just heard, but not as much as the smug look on his boss’s face. “He said his father told him that old shoe story.”

“Then the pattern fits. I knew that science twerp was working another agenda.”

“With all due respect, Sir, we don’t know his motives for sure.”

“You’re his friend, so I’ll allow that. But I am telling you this man has done everything to obstruct this investigation from the highest point.”

“It’s just not like Billy, Sir.”

“Did you know his father was a terrorist?”

“Union shop steward, Sir.”

“He destroyed a subway!”

“Did we pull the case jacket on that?”

“Pull your dick for all I care, Joe. Hiccock’s father is dirty, Hiccock is dirty, and they are both going down!”

Joey tried to calm his own emotions by looking to the next step. “Have you told the president?”

“No, that will be your job.”

“Me? No way!”

“You’re an agent and that’s a direct order from your director.”

“Why?”

“Listen, Joe. You met with him. You were running him for the bureau. Whatever he knew came from you.”

“He got nothing from me, in spite of our deal.”

“Your own report states that he had knowledge of Homegrown. There is nobody else in his group affiliated with the FBI. We held that tighter than a Scot holds a fifty.”

“But all my contact with him was your idea! I carried out your stupid, back-channel plan because you, my director, ordered me to.” Joey decided not to point out the fact that Hiccock’s group spent time in the FBI crime lab with Hansen and the tech boys. It would seem like he was passing the buck to Hansen. Besides, he knew the director was well aware of Hansen, but was tightening the screw on him for some reason.

“That’s not the way this is going to go, Joe, so let’s be clear. You finger Hiccock in front of the president and your record and career soar. You hesitate and I’ll have reason to suspect that I made a big mistake by allowing you to monitor a suspect’s progress.”

“When was he ever a suspect?”

“Whenever I say he was.”

“That’s not just hardball, that’s hard-assed ball.”

“The only way I know how to play, Joe. The country is reeling from these terrorist attacks and the president’s handpicked private eye, and your old buddy, turns out to be the son of a founding member of the Sabot Society. You telling the president will balance the scales.”

“Why do you hate Billy so much?”

“He defamed the bureau.”

“So now we are defaming him?”

“You want to start?” Reynolds said.

“This is Special Agent in Charge of my San Francisco office, Joseph Palumbo.”

“Yes, I remember meeting Agent Palumbo the other day.”

“He will report to you what we know. Joe?”

“Good morning. Sir, first I will read from the New York
Daily News
July 19, 1963. Under the headline ‘Shuttle Burns, Street Opened to Retrieve,’ there is this picture of a badly burned subway car being lifted onto 42nd Street by a crane through a hastily cut hole in the pavement. The top of the article reads, ‘The end of the line for the automated shuttle was reached yesterday when a fire burned under 42nd Street. The computer-controlled train was still in its testing stages. The TA was set to decide on regular service by year’s end. TA officials have not been able to determine the cause of the fire as of press time. Transit Workers Union spokesperson, Harry Hiccock, proclaimed, “This was just God’s way of saying that he didn’t invent trains to run themselves.” Mayor Wagner said, “The fire was unfortunate,” but stopped short of weighing in on the controversial train saying, “The TA has to determine whether they should continue research on automated trains.” The TA estimates it would save $150,000 in labor cost per year as soon as the new shuttle trains went into full operation.