Vanished (12 page)

For Jon, faith didn't add up to anything beyond a slippery
slope.

He tried to back out and regroup, but the mud held him.
Odd formulas whirled through his mind, strange music that
made sense only on the highest plane of existence, that apex
where math and physics existed in purity.

How many times had he and Chloe sung the same song,
exulting that they were able to calculate the essence of energy
and matter, proud that they could look into the heart of creation
and measure each beat?

Yet the mud drew Jon elsewhere, directing its song to
where all his intelligence and education couldn't guide him.
Hadn't his entire career-his entire life-been directed at grasping that elsewhere, that unifying force that brought
together weak and strong attractions?

He and Chloe believed in a particle that no one could see,
the first particle to speak its existence after the universe banged
its way into being. Was it such a leap to believe that a mighty
finger had flung that particle into what was not and sang as the
universe formed out of what couldn't be?

Chloe pounded on his back, signaling him to come out.
Buried in the mud's embrace, panic was a rational response.
Though the air in Jon's lungs grew heavy with carbon dioxide,
something stirred deeper in him.

A notion that hope in what could not be could also be
rational.

If Jon dared to hope, would there be light? As physics and
biology and chemistry proved, light was life. For surely, his
minutes-seconds now-were numbered. Without hope, he
would die in wet earth with no air or light or life, with nothing
except some crazy song the mud knew to sing but he did not.

His shoulder bumped against something.

With his last ounce of strength, Jon pushed upward. The
song of the mud resolved into a mighty sucking sound and a
sensation of pushing against the tide, something his own child
would know in five months as he fought his way into the light.

The mud snapped, light broke through, Chloe cried out, and
Hansen came free.

Jon didn't have time to catch more than a quick breath
before the mud dragged him back in. It was as if someone was
needed to pay a price. But what was Jon's infraction? Was it in
expecting concrete and steel made by the hands of men could
outlast dirt and water made by... whose hands?

Jon's body demanded oxygen, the stolen breath too quickly
converted to carbon dioxide, the signal that his body needed
more, screaming in every cell that he needed to open his
mouth and breathe.

If he did, the mud would fill his throat.

Yet frogs could take oxygen in this way-a creature of such
a low order that it wasn't even warm-blooded. Was it a blessing
not to be able to sing the song of matter and energy, not to
know the words of E=mcz, not to follow the steps of pi to their
illogical eternity?

Though Jon had little faith it would ever be answered, he
dared to throw one last question into the mud.

Are You out there somewhere, God?

HE KID WASN'T COMING BACK.

Half an hour ago Ben had slipped a kid ten bucks to
go into the Tower and bring Cannon back to him. Kid
was probably laughing his fool head off now, fist-tappin' his
friends about the stupid geek hiding in the bushes.

He'd have to go in, but not through the front entrance. Too
much of a crowd in the courtyard. He pulled his cap down over
his face, hoping he looked like just another ratty kid walking
across the playing fields behind the housing project.

Usually the air stunk back in here, a sharp chemical odor
from the plastics factory. The fans on the roof always whirred
steadily, dueling with the Tower's air conditioning units.
Today the air smelled strangely clean, maybe because the fans
were silent.

Power was out, which meant no elevators, and the stairways
would be lit only by emergency lights-and that only if no one
had broken them in the past week.

At seventeen stories, the John F. Kennedy housing complex
was the only high-rise in all the Flats. Cannon lived on the
fourteenth floor. That would be a long way to go in the dark.

Ben dashed for the back of the building, expecting at any
moment to hear shots ring out. If he caught one in the head,
would he actually feel it, or would he be gone before his brain
registered the bullet? Jasmine had probably gotten up this
morning thinking she'd live forever.

And now look. Life stinks, and then you die.

He slipped into the recessed bay that was supposed to let
sunlight into the basement. Every kid in this project and most
their friends knew that the window grill had enough give to let
someone slender slip in.

Ben wormed through and dropped in.

Emergency lights glowed an eerie red in the basement
corners. Cobwebs cast spiderlike shadows across the floor. Ben
carefully sidestepped piles of junk. Take a header down here
today and the rats would be down to his bone marrow before
anyone found him.

By the time he hiked up to Cannon's floor, Ben's lungs were
bursting. Madeline Sheffield answered the door. Eight years
old and chubby-cheeked, she was always making goo-goo eyes
at him.

"Where's your brother?" he said.

"Tripp's out."

"You know who I mean."

"Out there on the balcony, showing off."

Dressed only in a pair of gym shorts, Cannon was doing
curls with a barbell that Ben couldn't hoist with a forklift. A
serious lifter, the kid could be a college wideout or point guard
if he didn't keep getting thrown out of school.

"Yo," Ben said.

Sup.

"We gotta talk." Ben closed the slider. Madeline pressed her
face against it.

"You wanna keep that face, Mad Dog, you better get to your
room and don't come out until I say!" Cannon put the barbell
down and slammed a hand against the glass, and Madeline
disappeared.

Ben leaned on the railing, clearing his throat and trying not
to cry. No way to say it but to say it. "Jasmine's dead."

"Wow." Cannon swiped his hand over his face. "Man, that's
really cruel. How did it happen?"

"The bomb got her."

"Oh. Man."

"You hooked her up. A carry job?" Ben said.

Cannon straightened, pulling on his cool like someone else
might pull on a T-shirt. "Who's wantin' to know?"

"She said you did."

"Dude had business. She had need. So what if I did?"

"She carried the bomb. Thought it was a drug drop for your
pal Luther."

Cannon stepped into him. "Don't you get in my grill on this.
I just made the hellos. Jazz made the deal herself."

Ben opened his palms in a hands-off gesture. "I just need to
know what he looks like. In case he comes after me. Know what
I'm sayin'?"

"What's your hook in this?"

"I was stupid enough to go with her on the job."

"But you didn't get clocked out with her."

"Obviously not, moron."

Cannon's eyes narrowed. "Don't you disrespect me, boy."

"Tell me what the guy looks like."

"Better just to mind your own biz, you know what I'm
sayin'?"

"Come on, man. I'm trying to keep alive here. Give me something to work with."

"Dark skin, but not a brother. Not Latino, either. He had a
gold tooth with a diamond-crusted L. Bling on his fingers, but
Euro-bling, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Ben nodded. Jewelry not only marked a guy's status but also
who his people were. He wore none himself, which was a good
thing. Kept him in neutral and out of trouble-until today.
"How big was he?"

"My height."

Over six feet, then. "Weight?"

"Now that you're asking...I can't land on that. Man wore a
silk shirt. The kind you don't tuck. Didn't see his biceps, but he
had forearms tighter'n mine." Cannon flexed for emphasis. "So
I would've made him for a lifter except... "

"Except what?"

"Dude had a gut. Which doesn't make sense, now I'm
recallin'."

"Maybe he was a boozer. They get those big stomachs."

Cannon nodded. They both had alcoholic fathers. Gus
Murdoch was in the joint and Cannon's old man was over in
Worcester, running numbers and drinking his take, last anyone
heard.

"What about eye color?"

"I only seen him once without the shades. His eyes were real
dark. Black. And he squinted."

"Like he couldn't see?"

"More liken his eyes bugged him. Know what I'm sayin'?"

"Hair?"

"He covered his head."

"Do'rag?"

"No. Like a whatchamacall ... watch cap. Dude was one
walking fashion disaster, but he had this thing about him. Like
you wouldn't dare look sideways at him."

"What's your best guess on where he was from? Like, did he
talk with any accent?"

"No. Sounded like the rest of us, though, now I'm thinkin' on
it-he maybe posed hard on that one. He coulda been a Greek,
Turk, any of those Euro-types. Or one of those Arabs? I never
made him for that, Ben, or I woulda taken action. My word's
on that."

"Sure, man. Age?"

"What's with the questions? You aimin' to become a cop?"

"Aimin' to keep in one piece, man."

Cannon frowned. "The cap and shades, man. It was distractin',
if you know what I mean. Not that I cared-his money was
green, same's anyone else's"

"How did you meet him?"

"Gotta take five on that one."

The pass meant this Luther was likely a customer. Cannon
was a small-time dealer. Pot mostly. His bigger business was in
employment, mostly younger boys as runners. He made sure
no one had any interest in the kids other than to run errands.
Especially when he found jobs for the girls, even fools like
Jasmine.

Then again, who had been the bigger moron? At least
Jasmine got paid for her idiocy. Ben had gone along because
his hormones had blown what little common sense he had right
out of his ears.

Not that any of that mattered now.

Ben leaned over the railing. The tears would pass, but not
the regret. Never the regret. And maybe not the fear either. It
all depended on finding this Luther before Luther found him.

A fifteen-year-old dork versus a bomb-blowing terroristthose were some seriously fearsome odds.

HIS WAS A VERY BAD IDEA, LOGAN REALIZED.
1

The mist had engulfed him so he couldn't tell where
he was going or where he had come from. He must have
wandered off the bike path, because he couldn't feel the pavement anymore. Instead, there was grass under his feet, lush and
springy with motion. A biting chill gripped him, taking his
breath away.

Too proud to call for help, he tried to walk in a straight line.
Sooner or later he'd walk into a building, bump into a telephone
pole, or stumble back onto the path. He just had to keep going.

Then he heard voices.

A man cursed. A woman cried out, a high voice in a language
Logan couldn't understand.

The mist cleared. Dizzy and confused, Logan couldn't understand why he saw a sordid room instead of sidewalk and street.
There was a mat on the floor, a bottle of booze on a low table,
too much cigarette smoke to see clearly. The smoke swirled into
the mist so that he could only glimpse-

-a woman, a face that would be beautiful if not contorted
with fear as a man flung her against a wall, stunning her-

-a man with a shadowed face, bearing down on her-

Logan moved to stop him, but with each step the mist swirled
and he was still no closer. He drew his gun, aimed, but couldn't
shoot the man without getting the woman too.

Soundless in her despair, she turned dark eyes to him and
whispered Jae Sun.

"No!" he cried. "No, no, no!"

Someone yanked his arm. Pappas, pulling him out of the
mist. Dizzy and confused, Logan couldn't make out what was
real and what was a dream.

A federal agent. A cruel man.

A bomb. A rape.

People hurt. A woman helpless.