Wall of Night (22 page)

Holystone

By late afternoon, Latham had a list of the bus's fifty
-
two passengers, which he faxed directly to Tom Whulford at FBI headquarters. As the day wore into evening, a trickle of passenger information began rolling off the Holystone fax machine.

Despite Latham's prayers to the contrary, it was soon evident that every passenger was in fact a Chinese citizen. However unlikely, he'd been hoping he'd find one that was either a U.S. citizen or a recent immigrant. If so, that person would have likely been Tsang's contact: A wolf among the sheep. Alas, it wasn't to be.

“Now what?” Randall asked, yawning.

“Where are we with pictures?”

“Tommy's working on it. If they'd been part of the same tour, we'd be done by now.”

Despite sharing the same bus, most of the passengers were individual travelers, so instead of one entry point to check, there were dozens ranging between Atlanta to New York City. Tommy was slogging his way through Immigration's red tape, trying to nail down passport photos.

“Besides, what good are pictures going to do us?” Randall asked.

“I don't know, I like to have faces—it makes them more real.”

“I hope so. Otherwise we're going to be visiting a lot of hotels.”

Approaching nine-thirty, photos began spooling off the fax machine. They set up a system: Randall would pick up the photo, give it a quick look, then pass it to Latham, who would do the same, then clip it to the appropriate passenger's file.

The hours passed and the faces became a blur. The conference table grew ever more crowded with manila folders and photos. At eleven, the last one came off the fax.

“Nope,” Randall muttered. “Of course, I don't think I'd recognize Jimmy Hoffa right now.”

Latham looked at the photo, shook his head, then clipped it to the matching file. He plopped down into a chair. His head was buzzing.
Too much coffee,
too much thinking.

Randall sat down on the carpet, then lay back. “What d'ya think? Get some sleep and come back fresh in a few hours?”

“Sounds good.”

Latham leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After ten minutes, his brain was still clicking over.
Something there
…
something I'm overlooking
…
He got out of his chair and started pacing.

From the floor, Randall murmured, “What's up … ”

“Nothing.” Latham circled the table, thinking, thinking … Then, suddenly, it was there. “Paul!”

“Huh … what?”

Latham began flipping through the files, glancing at pictures. As Randall watched, Latham circled the table, checking a file, moving on, checking a file, moving on … On the twenty-sixth one, he stopped. He picked up the passport photo and studied it.

“Something, Charlie?”

Latham turned the photo around. “This.” He picked up the phone and called Wuhlford. “I need something: an old case of mine …” Latham gave him the details and hung up.

Forty minutes later, Tommy called back. “Got it, Charlie.”

“There should be two composite photos.”

“Yep, I see them.”

“Fax them to me.”

Latham stood by the machine as they arrived. He glanced at the first one, laid it aside, then grabbed the next and laid it beside the passport photo. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Hot damn.”

“What?” said Randall.

Latham slid the photo and the composite across the table to him. The composite depicted a Chinese woman in her mid-sixties with a round face and silver hair; the photo was an almost exact duplicate except for the age.

Randall read the file: “Siok Hui Zi. They're the same person. What's going on?”

“About six years ago,” Latham began, “some executives at Raytheon suspected they had a spy ring in their fire control division. An employee had come forward, stating she'd been approached by a coworker who asked how she felt about the company … the way it treated the employees—basically stirring the pot. Finally she was asked if she wanted to make a little extra money.

“Raytheon called us and we started digging into it. The employee who'd been approached strung along her coworker. Slowly the pieces came together. There were three others in the ring, but we were having trouble pinning down the group's controller.

“Finally we got enough on the ringleader and confronted him. He broke down and gave us everything—including a composite picture of the controllers and their names. By the time we went to grab them, they'd disappeared.”

Randall said, “You said controllers—plural.”

“Right.”

“You're telling me this old woman was one of them? Sweet-faced Grandma Siok Hui Zi?”

“Her name was different then, but yes.”

“And her partner?”

Latham picked up the other composite. “Sweet-faced
Grandpa
Mihn Zi.”

“Charlie, they've gotta be nearly seventy years old … If you're right, that means these two … “ Randall stopped, shook his head as though to clear it.

“It means that Grandma and Grandpa Zi are the ones who broke into the Baker home, then tortured and slaughtered a husband, wife, and two children.”

Like Randall, Latham found it hard to imagine a pair of wizened, cherubic-faced Chinese septuagenarians doing something so savage. Could he be wrong? Perhaps the Zis were just gophers, cogs in a larger network. “What hotel did she list on their entry visa?” Latham asked.

“They won't be there, Charlie. They—”

“It's a place to start. It's all we've got.”

“What about Tsang?”

“What about her? I doubt she could lead us to them even if she wanted to.”

“She listed her hotel as the Marriott in Bethesda—Pooks Hill. Checked in four days ago.”

“Okay, that's where we start. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

Latham's cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

“Charlie … is that you?”

“Who is this?”

“Charlie, it's Mrs. Felton … from down the street.”

His neighbor: spinster, six cats … “Yes, Mrs. Felton, is there something wrong?”

“I'm not sure. That's why I'm calling. Bonnie called me earlier today—”

“Bonnie? When?”

“This morning. She was worried about her ficus and asked if I would water it. I was just over there. Charlie, there's water all over the basement floor.”

Ah,
shit.
“Does it look like there's something running?”

Mrs. Felton paused. “Uh, well, I … yes, I heard water running. I was afraid to look.”

“Okay, I'm on my way. Thanks, Mrs. Felton.” He hung up.

“Problem?” asked Randall.

“I think my water heater finally gave up the ghost.”

“The hotel's halfway to your place. I'll run home, feed my cat, then meet you.”

Latham made good time, taking 270 past Bethesda then up to Burdette. Forty minutes after Mrs. Felton's call, he pulled into his driveway.

Aside from the amber light on the porch, the house was dark. Bonnie's flower baskets swung in the breeze. He punched the garage door opener. The door began rolling upward.

Gotta be some kind of unwritten law,
he thought.
Minor home disasters only happen on holidays or late at night
…
He checked his watch.
Almost midnight,
for God's sake.

The garage door reached the top and stopped with a
clunk.
Gotta replace that track spring.

He pulled into the garage until the hanging tennis ball bounced against the windshield, then shut off the engine.
Almost midnight
…

The overhead light clicked off, casting the garage in darkness except for what moonlight filtered through the open door.

Latham stopped. “Midnight?” he muttered. “It's almost
midnight.
”
Mrs. Felton was eighty years old; she was lucky to make it past nine o'clock.

Even as the alarm went off in his head, he glanced at his review mirror and saw a shadowed figure enter the garage. Moving fast, hunched over, it came around the side—

Gun
!

He rolled right, reached into his jacket for his holster. He heard three muffled thuds and thought,
noise suppressor.
His side window shattered. Glass peppered his face. He drew his gun, pointed it toward the window and pulled the trigger three times. Nearly blinded by the muzzle blast, he scrambled to the passenger door.

Thud.

The window above his head shattered. He extended his gun, pulled the trigger twice more, then yanked the door latch and tumbled onto the garage floor.

He took a deep breath. His heart pounded in his ears.

He heard feet shuffling on the other side of the car. He pressed his head to the concrete and peeked under the chassis. A pair of feet streaked past the front tire and disappeared from view. Latham pushed himself to his knees and laid his gun across the hood.

There was nothing.

The door to the laundry room banged shut.

They're in the house,
he thought.
The sons-of-bitches are in my house
…
Gotta assume they're both here..,
that's how they work
…
Mrs.
Felton
—
God,
let her be alive
…

He leaned into the car and turned the ignition key. The engine roared to life. He scrambled back out and waited.

The laundry-room door flew open. Silhouetted in it was a small-framed figure with hunched shoulders.
Grandma Zi.
Her gun game up, pointing at the car's windshield. Latham adjusted his aim and opened fire. Lightning fast, she turned, snapped off a shot, and ducked back inside as Latham's bullets shattered the doorjamb.

Latham reached into the car and shut off the engine.

Silence. The engine ticked as it cooled.

He stood up, pressed himself against the wall, then reached out and pressed the garage-door button. As it clattered shut, he ducked down, gun pointed at the laundry-room door.

Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.

They're too smart for that,
he thought.
And fast.
God almighty,
she was fast.

It was decision time. Did he go in after them, or do the smart thing and go for help?

No,
he thought. They'd invaded his home; they'd been looking for Bonnie and the kids.

“The hell with it,” he muttered.

Latham prayed he had the advantage. Though the Zis had probably familiarized themselves with the layout of his house, he knew its feel, its nooks and crannies; he could walk it in his sleep. On the other hand, there were two of them and they'd obviously put some thought into the ambush.

He crouched down, pressed his palm against the door, and pushed it open. The doorway was empty. He peeked between the door hinges: Clear. He crept inside and eased the door shut behind him.

He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The air in the laundry room felt strangely cool on his skin, and it took him a moment to realize why: Bonnie usually had a load of laundry going in the dryer when he got home at night.

He removed his shoes and tested his socks on the linoleum: Too slick. He removed his socks.

He visualized the lower level of the house: The laundry room led into the breakfast nook and kitchen; to the right would be the small family room; to the left, a short hall leading to the foyer.

Gun extended, Latham paced into the nook, looked left, then right, saw nothing, and kept going. He peeked around the corner into the family room. It was empty. He skirted the breakfast table and he leaned over the center island. Again, nothing.

He heard a squeak and immediately recognized the sound.
Floorboard in the foyer hall.

He spun.

A shadow dashed around the corner into the foyer. Then, more creaking: footsteps going up the stairs. Latham sprinted down the hall, moving fast, then stopped short.
No,
Charlie
!

Even as he was ducking back, he heard a crack from the landing above like two heavy books being slammed together. He felt a sting of heat on his left forearm, but kept back-pedaling.

Stupid,
stupid
…

They'd baited him, and it had almost worked. His forearm was slick with blood. He wriggled his fingers; no bones or ligaments hit. He backed into the kitchen, found a dish towel, then wrapped it around the wound. Wincing, he pressed his arm against chest.

They were upstairs. If they wanted to get out, they had to come past him.

Back in the hall, he turned sideways and leaned his head out for a peek at the landing. It was clear.
Okay,
Charlie,
second floor:
bathroom at the top of the steps
;
hallway goes left and right.
Master bedroom to the right
;
spare bedrooms to the left
…

He backed into the foyer, his gun trained on the landing. The tiles felt cold under his feet. He sidestepped toward the stairs, hand groping until his fingers touched the banister. He started up the stairs. At the third step, he stopped. He tested the tread with his toes until he found the cracked floorboard.

Eyes fixed on the landing above, he put his weight on the tread. It creaked.

Suddenly, a figure was there, rushing from the bathroom door. Latham shifted his aim and pulled the trigger. The figure's gun winked back. Bullets ripped into the wall. Charlie dropped to one knee, fired two more shots. The figure kept coming.
Center mass,
Charlie
…
He fired twice more.

The figure let out an explosive grunt, then doubled over and tumbled down the steps, landing in a heap on the tiles. Latham reached out with his foot, kicked the gun away, then rolled the body onto its back.
Grandpa Zi.
The old man had three wounds, two in his side, one in the sternum.

“Christ,” Latham muttered.
Three shots and he'd kept coming.

He stepped over the body and started up the stairs.
One more to go.
Where was she
?

He imagined her hiding in the darkness, listening to the gunfire, waiting for him.

Check the spare bedrooms first,
then move down the hall,
clearing rooms as you go
—

He felt a chill breeze on his back. He looked over his shoulder.

Standing in the center of the foyer, her gun leveled with his chest, was Grandma Zi.

The front door was open and Latham instantly realized what she'd done: From the laundry room she'd gone out the front door and waited for him to pass. With the moonlight at her back, her face was in shadow. She looked so tiny, almost comically so, with the too-large gun in her hand.

He was done. He might get off one shot, but not quickly enough. Even so, he wasn't going to make it easy for her. He tensed, readying himself.

“Freeze … FBI!”

Grandma Zi spun toward the kitchen hall. She raised her gun. There was a double
boom.
Her head snapped back. She pirouetted to the right, then fell crumpled in the open doorway.

“Charlie!” Randall shouted. “Charlie!”

“I'm here!” Latham's legs started trembling. With one hand on the banister, he sat down on the steps. He laid his gun beside his feet. “It's okay, come on through!”

Randall came around the corner, sidestepped to Grandma Zi, kicked the gun away, and checked her pulse. “She's alive, but not by much,” Randall said. “Jesus, Charlie, are you okay?”

“I'm okay, it not bad. God, I'm shaking.”

Randall let out an adrenaline chuckle. “Your car looks like hell, Charlie.”

Latham let out his own laugh. “Nothing a little duct tape won't cure—Mrs. Felton!”

“What?”

“My neighbor!” Latham pointed at Grandma Zi. “Take her—Germantown Memorial … it's three miles down two-seventy. We need her alive, and I need to find their car before the police get here. You've gotta buy me a little time.”

They quickly searched both bodies and found a set of car keys on Grandpa Zi.

“Go, Paul!”

Randall scooped up Grandma Zi and ran out the door. As he got in his car and squealed down the street, Latham sprinted across to Mrs. Felton's house. The front door was locked. He ran to the back door, turned the knob. It was open. “Mrs. Felton!”
God,
let her be alive
…
“Mrs. Felton!”

Above his head he heard thumping. At the top of the stairs, he suddenly found himself surrounded by a cluster of mewling cats. He picked his way through them and rushed into the bedroom.

Mrs. Felton lay gagged and bound to her bed. Seeing him, her eyes rolled wildly. Latham removed the gag. “Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry, they made me—”

“Forget it, Mrs. Felton. Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes. My cats! Where are my cats?”

Latham smiled. “Your cats are fine.”

There was no way to avoid it. The police had to be involved. One person was dead in his house, another was at the hospital with a bullet in her skull. Even if he were so inclined, Latham couldn't cover that up. Still, he wasn't about to let the case unravel. He flipped open his cell phone, called Dutcher, and recounted the incident.

“Paul's taken her to the hospital,” he finished. “I've got to call the cops, and then my boss. I've got their keys; I'm guessing their car is nearby. Can you send Cahil or Tanner?”

“Charlie, it might be time to cut our losses—”

“If we get their car, we can track down where they're living. This could be the break we need, Leland. If we hand it to the police, we lose it all.”

“You're sure the police aren't already on their way?”

“Aside from Mrs. Felton, my closest neighbor is a quarter mile away. Besides, the sheriff's station is, two miles from here. If they'd gotten a call, they'd already be here.”

“Okay, I'm sending Cahil—but I want him out of there before you start making calls.”

“No problem. Tell him to hurry. I've got a dead man lying in my foyer.”