Tick Tock (9 page)

Many of the young people in the crowd had cell phones in their hands and were recording the momentous occasion. Berger lifted his own phone, but it wasn’t to take a picture.

It was to paint his own.

He pressed the speed dial.

“And one, two,” The Show said.

“Show’s over,” Berger said.

There was a flash of light. A startling blast of sound followed by a long, cracking echo. The Show stood there, microphone to his gaping mouth, as the camera panned over his shoulder onto a plume of smoke. In 1080 HD with Dolby Surround, Berger was psyched.

He changed to Channel Two.

CBS’s
Early Show
was on. The host, some slutty-looking bimbo, was grilling fish out on the studio’s 59th and Fifth Avenue plaza with none other than celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck.

“Ja, you see? Ja,” Wolfgang said.

“Ja, Volfie, I see, I see,” Berger said as he thumbed another speed-dial button for the second device he’d planted next to the corner garbage can at the chef’s back.

Another explosion, even louder than the first, happened immediately. Someone started screaming.

“That’s what you get,” Berger chided, clicking over to ABC.

Diane Sawyer was interviewing a sportswriter who was shilling his latest vapid tear-jerking bestseller. They were outside on one of ABC’s Times Square Studios’ roof plazas.

“Tell me, where do you get your ideas?” Diane wanted to know.

“On second thought, don’t,” Berger said as he dialed the third bomb that he’d left in the center of Times Square, down on the street beneath her.

The sound was softer, which made sense due to the elevation, Berger thought, looking down at the Oriental carpet. Had there been a little glass-shattering in that one? He nodded with a grin. Indeed, there had been. Exceptional!

Satisfied, he shut off the massive set. Watching the ensuing chaos would prove—What? People were afraid of
explosives? He knew that already. Better than most. Now it was time to rest up before lunch.

He was actually pretty proud of the bombs. They were simple, Venti-size sticks of dynamite attached to a Wi-Fi antenna wired to a watch battery with a thin piece of detcord for the boost. Not huge, but just big enough to make everybody scared shitless. Big enough to make everyone start to carefully ponder their next step.

With high explosives, it was all about the real estate. Location, location, location.

He went into his bathroom and opened the tap. He dropped in the bubble soap and bath crystals and lit some candles. On the sound system, he put on a new CD that he’d gotten at Bed Bath & Beyond. He popped a couple of Vitamin P-is-for-Percocets and slid into the warm water as a woman’s voice rang like an angel’s off the glowing white Tyrolean marble walls.

“Who can say where the road flows?” Berger sang along.

He closed his eyes.

I BURIED MY HEAD DEEPER under my pillow as a little hand shook my big foot. By the brightness of the light trying to crash through my sealed eyelids, I knew I was late for work, and I couldn’t have cared less.

I didn’t even want to start thinking about, let alone dealing with, the mind-blowing letter I’d received last night from the Son of Sam.

Then there was a giggle and more fingers wrapped around my other foot. Two someones were now having some silly fun at Daddy’s expense. Two about-to-be-spanked someones.

“Daddy,” Shawna said, wiggling my ear.

“No es Daddy here-o,”
I said in my best Speedy Gonzales voice as I peeled her hand off.
“Daddy es mucho nighty-night.”

“But Daddy, you have to come,” Shawna said. “Grandpappy is cooking breakfast.
Grandpappy
.”

“What?” I said, rolling to my feet in my Manhattan College boxers.

Seamus cooked breakfast on one occasion only. Christmas morning. The funny thing was, it was so good, it was worth the yearly wait.

I couldn’t believe it as I came into the kitchen and the smell hit me. It was true. Seamus, in a chef’s hat, was working all the burners, and the table was already a feast of pecan bacon, links from heaven called Pork King Sausages, eggs, home fries, and pancakes. Seamus had gone to town. All the way downtown, in fact, I thought as I saw a stack of homemade doughnuts covered in powdered sugar.

“What gives, Seamus?” I said as he laid down some sizzling blood pudding. “You leaving us? Is that it? You’re heading back to the ol’ sod, Danny boy. Is this farewell?”

“You wish,” he said, pointing the spatula at me. “If you haven’t noticed, this family is in need of some cheering up ever since we went to war with Clan Flaherty.”

“Dad?” said Juliana as I took my place at the head of the table. “Could you at least, like, I don’t know, put on a bathrobe?”

Everyone was smiling around the crowded dining-room table. Even poor Ricky with his stitches.

“Why do I have to be so formal, Juliana?” I said, smiling back at everyone. “Is Joe coming by?”

“Ooooh!” everyone said.

“Ooooh yourselves,” Seamus said, coming in with a
platter of buckwheat pancakes. “How about we say grace instead. Mr. Bennett, you lead us, if you can even remember it.”

“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts,” I said as we all joined hands, “which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord.”

“AMEN!” everyone agreed heartily.

Joking aside, I actually did say a prayer for the professor’s poor wife who was about to give birth. I even asked for help to catch the insane son of a bitch who blew her husband’s head off at point-blank range.

I was in a breakfast-grease coma and biting into my first doughnut when someone made the mistake of putting on the TV.

“Dad! Dad! You have to see this!” Ricky yelled.

“I’m a cop,” I said, calling into the family room. “Don’t mess with a cop when he’s anywhere near a doughnut.”

I winked at Mary Catherine across the table. She seemed to be in a good mood, having slept in while Seamus cooked. Maybe today would turn out better than yesterday, after all. I was due for a small miracle. Past due.

“But it’s another bombing, Dad. At Rockefeller Center. No one dead, it says at the bottom of the screen. But a dozen people are in the hospital. The mad bomber strikes again!”

Rockefeller Center? This loser didn’t quit, did he? Or was it two people? One Son of Sam copycat and another fool?

I didn’t even look for my phone. I didn’t need my boss to tell me where I needed to be.

Running for the shower, I passed Seamus coming in with the coffee.

“I’ll need to take that to go.”

PEDAL TO MY CITY-ISSUED IMPALA’S METAL, flashers and siren cranked to full amplification, I plowed a swath through the BQE’s left lane that morning.

A scraggly red Ford pickup that had missed out on the Cash for Clunkers deal tried to cut in a hundred feet in front of me. His mirrors must have been broken, as well as his ears. I roared up until I was practically in his rusting truck bed before I sent him packing with a fierce barrage of machine-gunning
yawps
and
whoops
.

No wonder I was on the warpath. What was happening was beyond incredible. Police presence had been beefed up at all major public places around the city, and still our bomber had managed to set off even more explosives. At the same time as all three network morning shows were being broadcast, no less!

I thought about the crime scene from the night before.

I lifted my BlackBerry as I pounded past a nasty stretch
of Queens tract housing and half-finished construction sites. Talking on the phone was beyond stupid and reckless, considering I had my cop car up near the three-digit range, but what was I going to do?
Stupid
and
reckless
happened to be my middle and confirmation names this crazy morning. It was time to brainstorm with Emily Parker down at the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program in Virginia.

“Parker,” Emily said.

I quickly told her about the previous night’s murder scene and the Son of Sam letter addressed to me.

“So not only is someone setting off bombs every three seconds, but the Son of Sam has apparently returned,” I said in conclusion. “And to top things off, the only connection between the crimes so far seems to be a desire to correspond with lucky old me.”

“You think the three terrorist acts are connected to the Son of Sam copycat killer?” Emily said. “That is truly bizarre.”

That’s when I remembered what Ricky had said as I was leaving. I almost ran off the elevated expressway.

The mad bomber strikes again!

“Wait! The Mad Bomber. Of course!” I cried. “It isn’t a terrorist act, Emily. The bombings are copycats, too. There actually was a Mad Bomber who terrorized New York in the forties or fifties, I think.”

“Hold up, Mike. I’m at a computer,” Emily said.

I could hear her typing.

“My God, Mike, you’re right. It’s right here on Wikipedia. The guy’s name was George Metesky. He was known as the Mad Bomber, and it says here that in the forties and fifties, he planted bombs at New York landmarks. Wait! It says he planted bombs at the Public Library and Grand Central Terminal.”

I shook my head.

“Is that what this is?” I said. “Someone or more than one person is copycatting two famous crime sprees at once?”

“But how?” Emily said, sounding astounded. “Think about the logistics. How could it be coordinated? Four bombings and a double murder in a little over twenty-four hours?”

“Well, from the sophistication of the bombs, we’re not dealing with dummies,” I said as I fumbled my grip on my phone. I was just able to catch it against my chest.

When I looked back up, I immediately stopped thinking about the case. In fact, my entire brain stopped functioning. Then my lungs.

Because around a curve in the expressway, being approached at roughly the speed of light, were three packed lanes of dead-stopped traffic.

FOR A FEW PRECIOUS FRACTIONS OF A SECOND, I did nothing but gape at the frozen red wall of brake lights.

Then I did four things pretty much simultaneously. I screamed, released the phone, let off the gas, and slammed on the brakes.

Nothing happened. In fact, the brakes felt suddenly looser than normal. Were they broken? I thought, pissed. Or possibly
cut?
I knew the car had ABS. It was perhaps the only thing on my shock-scrambled mind as I hurtled toward the rapidly approaching rear of a Peter Pan tour bus.

I wondered in my panic if I was doing it right. Was I supposed to pump or hold the brakes? I couldn’t remember. My fear-locked leg decided for me, keeping the pedal down as far as it would go.

The brake pedal gave a couple of hard jerks under my foot and then felt even looser. The line had snapped under
the strain, I decided. The massive steel wall of bus in my windshield got larger and closer by the millisecond.

It was over, I decided. I was going to hit it head-on, and it was going to be very bad.

That’s when a slow-motion, life-flashing-before-your-eyes sensation kicked in. I glanced to my right as I lasered past a white Volkswagen Jetta. The pretty young brunette behind the wheel was putting on mascara. Turning back toward the rear of the bus that I was about to become part of, I wondered if she was the last human face I would ever see.

My last thought as I braced my arms against the steering wheel was of my kids. How hard and royally shitty it was going to be for them to lose not just their biological parents, not just their adoptive mother, but now their careless adoptive father as well.

I closed my eyes.

And the car just stopped.

No skidding. No warning. There was a brief scream of rubber, and it was like God slipped his hand between my car and the bus, and I went from sixty to zero in zero point zero seconds.

Too bad I was still moving. My sternum felt like it was hit with an ax handle as I chest-bumped my locked shoulder belt. My dropped BlackBerry catapulted off the passenger seat like an F-14 off a carrier. It ricocheted off the glove box and whizzed past my ear like a bullet.

Guess I should have bought that merchandise insurance
after all, I thought, as I sat blinking and shuddering behind the wheel.

Was I still alive?

I decided to check. I took a sweet drink of oxygen and, like magic, turned it into carbon dioxide. Then I did it again. My heart was still beating, too. Actually, it felt like it was trying to tear itself out of my chest, but that was neither here nor there. Being alive was fun, I decided.

I WAITED A FEW MORE SECONDS to see if St. Peter was going to show. When he didn’t, I backed away from the rear of the idling bus. Ignoring the dumbstruck looks from my fellow motorists in the other lanes, I reached into the back of the car and retrieved my phone. The battery cover was shot, but the phone was actually still working. Miracles were abounding this morning.

Since traffic was at a standstill, I decided to call Emily back.

“Mike, what happened?” Emily said when I got her on the line.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, wiping cold sweat out of my eyes with my free palm. I was going to leave it at that, but then the fear and adrenaline caught up with me, and my hands started to shake so badly, I had to lay the phone down and put it on speaker.

“Actually, I almost just killed myself, Emily,” I said. “I
was flying back into Manhattan and turned a corner and came within an inch or two of embedding myself in the rear end of a tour bus. Who needs coffee?”

“My God! Are you okay?”

“My hands won’t stop shaking,” I said. “I thought I’d bought it there for a second, Emily.”

“Pull over and take some deep breaths, Mike. I’m right here with you.”

I followed her advice. It wasn’t just what she said but the way she said it. Emily really was a supportive person. I remembered her on our previous case together. How caring she was with one of the young kidnapping victims. She knew when to push and when to hold back. She was a terrific agent and a deeply caring person. She was good-looking, too. We kind of fell for each other during the case. Well, I know I fell for her.