Witness to Death (37 page)

Callahan walked into the center of town at nearly four in the morning. The sky was still dark, though it would be a bright shade of purple soon. An hour after that, the sun would be up.

Earlier he’d lain in the snow, feeling the cold seep into his body. First his ribs started to throb, and when he rolled on to his side it felt like when he was a kid and he fell off his bike one summer afternoon. His mother rushed from the house, dish towel still in hand telling him not to get up, not to move. She was worried he’d broken his neck, but he knew his neck was fine. She called the ambulance, which took him to the hospital and he sat around for three hours until a doctor finally took a look at him, taped him up, and told him no bike riding for six weeks.

He didn’t have six weeks this time. He didn’t have any time at all. And he couldn’t allow his cracked ribs to slow him down. He rolled through the pain, on to the flat of his palms, like he was about to do a push-up. His left hand felt as if someone had dropped a boulder on it. He looked down to see his pinkie finger pointing left. Another wound to go with the cuts from the garrotte. He got to his feet, gritting his teeth when he put pressure on his hand. He hobbled a few steps down the rest of the incline into the yard.

No lights had come on in the house, so maybe his fall hadn’t woken anyone in the neighborhood. Down the street a dog barked.

Callahan wrapped his hand around his bad finger, and counted to three. With a flick of his wrist he snapped the finger back into place. A knife drew a line straight up his forearm. Sweat poured from him. He caught his breath and looked between the houses out to the street.

A car drove slowly down the road. It stopped a few times and he saw the flickering beam of a flashlight. Callahan stepped back into the trees and moved through them down the block—away from the car. Behind him the trees rustled and he heard whispers. He clenched his teeth and broke into a jog.

If anyone had been behind him, they never caught up.

He trotted into the middle of the town. Some of the throbbing in his hand had stopped, but the soreness in his ribs continued. He turned a corner and found a Dunkin Donuts with a few people inside. He limped that way.

Once inside, Callahan asked if they had a phone. The guy behind the counter looked like he’d just woken up and didn’t argue, just handed him the coffee and pointed to a phone behind the counter. Callahan went around the corner.

There was too much going on, and his brain was over stimulated.

John had speculated a bomb was about to go off in NYC.

He thought about it, at this time of day, it would be nearly a two hour drive to get into the city. An hour to get to the tunnel, and by then it would be rush hour. Getting through the tunnel would be a crapshoot.

They’d have to get moving in the next two and a half hours.

As Callahan dialed, he realized shivers hadn’t attacked his body in some time, and it felt as if the cold was rolling off his skin. His fingertips were still numb, as were his toes, but it seemed his core was warming.

He entered a series of codes and passwords in order to make the secure connections, and got through to Candy Balascio.

She answered the phone with the word, “Roosevelt.”

“Cruise,” he responded.

“Peter, why aren’t you on your own phone?”

“I’ve been out of a cell range for a while. I had to borrow a phone from someone with a better service.” He forced out a chuckle. “Leave it to the department to use a provider that limits service.”

Candy didn’t laugh. He hoped she bought the lie.

“I’ve been looking for you. Things have gone crazy down here. Where are you?”

“Vernon. Small town in upstate New Jersey.”

It was a guess, but it was also a place where he never got cell reception.

“Weller’s dead.”

He didn’t say anything. Candy would have been suspicious if he did. She’d delivered bad news to him before, and he tried not to respond to it those times either.

“They found him in Jersey. Some town called Saddle Brook, in a hotel. Someone strangled him.”

They killed him in New Jersey—not New York. Why had Weller crossed the river?

“I was calling in to ask you to find out where Duffy is. I need to talk to her,” Callahan said. “About my case. About Weller—Jesus Christ.”

“She’s at the hotel. The Saddle Brook one.”

Callahan closed his grip around the phone a little tighter. He could feel the plastic in his fingertips.

“You sure you’re okay?” Candy said.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“I can’t believe this. The whole office is going nuts. Be careful out there, Peter.”

“I will,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

She gave him Duffy’s number and hung up.

Callahan dialed the phone again. It rang twice, then he got a computerized voice asking him for code words. He said them. He was asked for his pass number and then the phone rang a few times and another voice asked who he was calling for. He told the voice and the voice told him to hold.

Doreen Duffy picked up.

“Who is this?”

“Peter Callahan. I work for you.”

Duffy took a deep breath. Callahan heard it hiss through the phone.

“You’re dead.”

“No. I’m in Vernon, New Jersey. I think we need to talk.”

“You
think?
”

The cashier walked to the other side of the counter and started cleaning the coffee makers.

Duffy asked Callahan what the hell he was doing there.

He told her everything from the torture, to the bomb, to the garrotte around his neck. She listened, occasionally asking a question to get more details out of him. He didn’t know what kind of bomb. He didn’t know where in NYC. He described what he saw inside the hangar. The helicopters. How when Christine led him out the back he saw SUVs. He didn’t know the whole plan. He knew the broad scope of it. When she asked him about the bomb for a fourth time, he squeezed the phone tight in his hand.

“Just get people up here now!”

“I’ll do it. We’ll send a group of agents to the Lincoln Tunnel and let the NYPD know. They’ll have BOLOs out in no time. We’ll also get an army up to the top of the mountain. You’re doing good work, Callahan.”

“How long?” His left hand accidentally bumped the counter and he had to grit his teeth from the pain.

“Are you okay?” Duffy asked.

“Fine. Just hurry.”

“Good. This is in our hands now. Let us do our work. Come up here. I want to meet with you. Talk about Weller. And I don’t want you getting caught and getting me in more trouble. You’re supposed to be dead, remember. Says so in your file.”

He put the phone down. Then he stepped out into the cold. The sun was peaking over the houses now, the morning starting. It was President’s Day, so a lot of people had the day off—there wouldn’t be as much traffic getting into the city. Whoever Sandler was sending could leave in an hour and still get to the city for eight in the morning. Probably just slow up around the tunnel.

ASAP.

Duffy would have to go through a ton of channels to mobilize some men to Vernon. He had no doubt she’d get them to NYC on time. But he was going to have to slow down Sandler. No matter what Duffy’s orders were. He had to see this through. He’d gotten too deeply involved to back out now.

He looked back up the hillside toward Sandler’s hangar.

He hoped he had time to do both.

Callahan got out of the beaten up pick-up truck at the Saddle Brook hotel.

He’d boosted the truck from an alleyway down the street from the Dunkin Donuts. He hoped he’d get it back before the owner woke up. Unfortunately, they’d see it was broken into, but the insurance payout would probably keep them from worrying. The drive was an easy one, taking twenty-five minutes. No one was on the road and he was able to really push the speed limit.

The automatic door of the hotel dinged and slid open, releasing a wave of heat. He stepped on to the plastic surface and wiped the moisture off his shoes. The agents were sensible enough to avoid hanging out in the lobby. Callahan thought they probably didn’t want to disturb the other guests, but he quickly spotted two men in suits trying to look casual in front of the elevator doors.

A guy in a gray suit put out his hand, palm out flat, to stop Callahan at the elevators.

“May I help you?”

“Peter Callahan to see Doreen Duffy.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the suit said.

“Oh please, what am I supposed to think, you’re the bellhop?”

The suit turned around and raised his sleeve to his mouth. How he got into the
Secret
Service, Callahan wasn’t sure. Subtle as an explosion.

The suit turned back and said, “Fifth floor.”

Callahan appreciated the elevator’s heat as he watched the numbered lights flicker above the door. The elevator rose, and with each passing floor, Callahan’s mouth got a bit drier. As soon as the elevator opened, Callahan noticed the hubbub. Agents leaned against the walls writing on clipboards. A few were kneeling close to the carpet, chewing on pens.

Callahan asked the first person who noticed him to point out Doreen Duffy. The agent pointed to room 517. There was no reason for secrecy at this point.

Inside, Weller’s body was gone. The coroner must have removed it pretty recently, because the chalk outline was still settling into the carpet. A woman had her back to the hotel room door, looking out the window on to Route 80. Cars sped past.

“Doreen Duffy?” Callahan asked, approaching her.

She spun around, revealing close-cropped black hair and wire rim glasses. Her arms were crossed in front of her. She nodded to Callahan and held out her right hand. In her left was a clipboard. When Callahan shook it, he noticed a long thin scar that ran from her thumb up to the edge of her sleeve. She didn’t seem terribly excited he was there. He introduced himself. Her face didn’t change.