The Remnant (7 page)

"Stiff upper lip and all that," she said,
smirking and shaking her head.

He gave her a look that said that his dog
lips were as stiff as they were likely to get.

She lifted the carbine to her shoulder
and-barely taking time to aim-clicked the trigger in quick two
round bursts. Even at that distance she could see the holes
appearing in the black torsos. Setting the empty carbine aside she
jerked the pistol from her holster and used the same technique
until its clip was empty, too. Not one round failed to strike
somewhere in the black. The double-tap shooting method was one Stan
had taught her and the others. No one in the valley now used the
old tried and true
hold your breath and squeeze
technique.
By the time you did that you could be dead.

She ejected the empty clip from the pistol
onto the ground, grabbed another from her jacket pocket and rammed
it home, firing in more two round bursts. Then she reloaded the
carbine and did the same, until she had only enough cartridges left
to reload both weapons. Finally she turned to Maxie who was still
sitting at attention, his head ducked as though as much shrapnel
might have been flying about as during the assault on Normandy.
When she signaled that they were through by removing the cotton
from his ears he did a dance of joy around her.

"All right," she said, picking up a stick and
hurling it toward the targets, "your turn."

The dog raced back with the stick, dropping
it expectantly at her feet. She tossed it until he was panting and
his tongue lolling, but he still looked disappointed when she left
the stick lying on the ground and picked up the carbine and empty
clips to head for home.

"You’d chase that thing until you dropped if
I let you," she said, as he trotted alongside down the trail.

The skies were clear and blue through the
surrounding trees. There wasn’t a breath of breeze. When a gray
squirrel skittered up a balsam fir Maxie froze, his tail
outstretched, and Ashley laughed.

"What are you now, a pointer? Want me to
bring the beast down with the carbine so we can have him for
dinner? He wouldn’t make a good appetizer."

She ruffled the fur on the dog’s head and
continued on down the path. Maxie grinned beside her as though he’d
enjoyed the ribbing. She loved the touch of the animal, the
simpatico between them that filled a small portion of the void in
her soul.

You have to choose between me or the
cult.

Trace’s words, echoing in her mind after all
the years struck her like a hammer blow.
Cult
? The hard
truth was that it was a cult, and she had long admitted it, but
only after it was too late, after there was no chance for her and
Trace. Now she had a dog for companionship.

She stumbled and Maxie glanced anxiously at
her, but she shook her head and continued on down the path.

Maybe if I had loved him the way he wanted...
things might be different. At least wherever he is now he’s far
away from this insanity. Hopefully married with kids, living a
normal life where people aren’t always planning some way to kill
him.

Be well, Trace. Live long.

Trace clambered up yet another rickety wooden
ladder and out into what appeared to be a small storage closet. A
broom handle leaned against the frosted pane of a warped and
peeling panel door, the dusty window bleeding a grim, early-morning
light into the room. He lowered the trap door back into place,
wondering where he was and why entrances and exits such as the ones
he had used even existed. Other than himself and Leadie and Softie
what other strange denizens of the city perambulated those rat and
bat infested byways? He was glad he hadn’t met any.

He stumbled outside and down a trash-strewn
alley into a bright Tribeca morning, instantly recognizing the
unique ambiance of the eclectic enclave below Canal Street-what
Trace’s editor referred to as chic meets plastic. Tribeca was in
the early years of the 21
^st
century what the Village had
been to the middle of the last. The neighborhood was an American
metro-microcosm, the old three and four-story buildings housing
everything from ritzy restaurants, to comic book stores, to porn
shops.

At Greenwich and Watts he stood on the corner
dusting himself off while a woman across the street rolled out the
awnings on a shop that seemed to specialize in high priced junk and
long out-of-date clothing. As he wandered back uptown, watchful for
a cab, he couldn’t help but notice how much the early morning
scurry of the shopkeepers and men and women on their way to work
reminded him of the rats.

In fact the entire city had taken on a new
look and feel after his misadventure, a sense of something alien
teeming just beneath its stone and glass exterior, a world within a
world. It was as though his unexpected immersion beneath the dark
surface of the sluice had baptized him into another reality. He
could have sworn he heard whispered voices through the brick and
brownstone walls, that he caught fleeting glimpses of crimson eyes
watching from the storm drains. He could still feel the surge of
the rodents against his shoes.

He was relieved when a taxi finally responded
to his whistle, and he directed the middle-eastern driver to the
address where he’d left his car. He leaned back for the ride,
ignoring the recorded warning to buckle up. As the car slithered
like a bright yellow lizard through the other snaking cabs and
buses up Broadway, Trace finally realized just how exhausted he
was. He knew if he closed his eyes he’d have to be dragged from the
cab or else sleep the day away within it.

He shook his head, squinting into the
sun.

As the cab slowed the driver nodded and
pointed toward the numbers on the brownstone, but Trace’s car was
not where he’d left it. He should have known. The city had towed
it, and he didn’t have the energy to fight with some officious
bureaucrat now. And to top things off he’d left his cell phone on
the console. He gave the driver the address of his hotel, and
leaned back again, watching as the entrance to the apartment
building passed by.

He tipped the driver in front of the hotel
then stumbled wearily to the elevator. He was almost asleep on his
feet before he reached his floor, and all he could think of was a
hot shower to remove the dank smell of the tunnels and the residue
of slime from the sluice before hitting the sack. But staring into
the open door of his suite, his heart began to pound furiously, and
exhaustion was burnt away by the heat of yet more adrenalin
coursing through his veins.

Every piece of furniture was askew. The
french doors onto the iron balcony were wide open. File folders lay
scattered across the carpet. His laptop was missing from the desk.
He hurried to the phone and informed the manager, then continued
through the suite.

The bed linens were on the floor, the
mattress and foundation leaning against the wall. Suits and ties
and underwear were tossed wildly about. The drawers from the
bedside tables lay overturned on the carpet. In the bathroom his
shaving kit had been emptied into the bath and every towel was off
the rack. He heard movement behind him and spun.

The man standing in the bedroom door was tall
and broad shouldered with dark eyes and what was either a cruel
smile or a friendly smirk. "Mister Wentworth?"

Trace nodded.

"I’m Mavich, house security," said the man,
striding through the mess to offer his hand.

Trace shook it.

"Got any idea why this happened?" asked
Mavich.

Trace shrugged, explaining that he’d been out
all night.

"Got any enemies?"

Trace frowned. "I seem to have a few."

Mavich nodded. "Anything missing?"

Trace explained about the laptop. So far he
hadn’t found anything else gone.

"I have a form you can fill out down at the
front desk," said Mavich. "Chances are I won’t be able to get a cop
over here for a few hours for one missing laptop."

"Someone trashed my room."

Mavich shrugged, nodding toward the
television lying in the corner with a broken screen. "There were
two separate bomb scares an hour ago. The Empire State Building and
the financial district. Every cop in town is on alert, but
nothing’s blown up so far."

Trace nodded. "I need some sleep," he said.
"I can’t get it here."

"The hotel certainly wants to do what’s
right. Why don’t you just grab whatever you need, and I’ll let you
into the suite next door. You can come down and fill out the forms
at your leisure."

"Thanks," said Trace, gathering up a set of
jeans, a t-shirt, and some running shoes.

In the corridor, while Mavich fumbled for his
card key, Trace stared at his own open door.

"How did they get in?" he wondered.

Mavich shrugged again. "Crooks around this
town are pretty savvy. Even with the electronic locks they find
ways. I spend half my time doing my best to stay ahead of ‘em...Not
to say that security in the hotel isn’t top notch."

Trace nodded again, too tired to argue with
someone who was simply trying to be helpful. When he crossed into
the suite that was an exact copy of his own, Mavich lingered in the
door.

"I’m going off duty in a few minutes. You
sure you don’t have anything else back there you don’t want to
leave behind?"

"No."

The paper files were nothing but hard copies
of some of his references he’d wanted for his meeting with his
editor. It was his laptop he missed because it had become his life.
Without the physical presence of the computer itself, without the
keyboard that had become his only friend, his companion, his
confessor, for almost five years, he felt naked.

He dredged up a smile for Mavich, then closed
the door in the detective’s face. He managed a very brief shower
leaving his filthy suit on the bathroom floor. Then he crawled into
bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

But he dreamed of rats.

Frederick Rendt stared at his trained pair of
killers, now wearing mussed suits and exhausted looks. "How could
you possibly have lost him?"

The pair exhibited remorse but no sign of
fear. He was their leader, but as long as they followed his
commands and the tenets of the Prophet they risked no earthly
punishment, and the rewards were great. Their own failure was a
worse rod to them than any Rendt might ever have wielded.

Both shook their heads. Leadie removed his
shirt and tossed it onto one of the beds in the room. Through the
curtains sunlight shone brightly, and outside horns honked and
sirens squealed. "He just disappeared in that maze. My guess is
he’s lost down there. He’ll never get out."

Rendt nodded, steepling his fingers in front
of his aquiline nose. That wouldn’t be an unacceptable end to
Mister Wentworth, but it wasn’t definitive enough to satisfy. Until
last night’s escapade Rendt had been reasonably certain that Trace
Wentworth did not realize that his life was in jeopardy, and that
was the way Rendt had meant to keep things until after it was far
too late for the man. So, was their enemy really lost where he
would eventually die within the bowels of this Mecca of sin? There
was a wonderful symmetry to that end if he was, but Rendt was
afraid to trust in it. He would have to pray for guidance.

He stared at the two men taking in their
differences and similarities. Joshua was powerful but slow-witted,
Rendt’s son, Orrin, on the other hand was more compactly built,
quick both physically and mentally. Both had made the grade to
become members of an elite group, some of the most trustworthy and
God-fearing men to ever live. He would trust either of them with
his life just as he knew they would trust him with theirs. He loved
them all as sons.

"Get cleaned up," he told both men. "Then get
some sleep."

Joshua lay down on the coverlet of the bed,
shielding his eyes with his forearm. Orrin disappeared into the
bath. Rendt turned to the laptop on the desk beside him, scrolling
through files. The more he read, the more his heart pummeled his
chest, the more his fingers tensed on the keys, until it was all he
could do to keep from driving his powerful fist down onto the
hateful machine and bursting its dark and demonic innards into the
light.

If Trace Wentworth was dead, then fine. If he
was alive, Rendt was going to find him. And this time he would make
him pay with more than just his worthless life.

Trace awakened starving, with late afternoon
sun glimmering across the bed. He called for room service then took
another, longer shower, to wash away the dregs of exhaustion.

As he sat at the table by the window
overlooking the park, shoveling in steak and eggs, he realized it
was too late to call anyone about his Lexus so he dialed his
editor’s number. Like many of the breed, Charles Berkley could be
expected to be in his office late, and he answered on the third
ring. But he didn’t sound happy to hear from Trace.

"I know I missed our appointment, Charlie."
said Trace. "Let me explain."

"It’s not that, Trace. Or rather it’s a hell
of a lot more than that."

"What’s the matter?" asked Trace, responding
to the curt voice.

"The word came from the top not an hour ago,"
said Charles, "
Dangerous Angels
is unacceptable."

"What do you mean, unacceptable?" said Trace,
setting his coffee aside.

He’d received a very healthy advance for that
manuscript. If the publisher refused to print it for just about any
reason under the sun he would have to return the money. Doing a
quick tally in his head he knew he didn’t have it.

"Evidently you stepped on some major toes
with this one. This isn’t like writing about Roswell."