Part 8
The combination of a very rough ride, his delicate head hitting a hard carpet, and the stench of vomit woke him up. He turned away from the smell, pulled his cuffed hands up to wipe his mouth and blinked.
Darkness. Total darkness cloaked him, smothering him and sending his heart into a frenzied dance. His throbbing skull and burning ribcage added to the inferno. Flashes popped into his throbbing skull. A diner, bright and homey. A waitress, her tired eyes lit and a kind smile. Danny's runny eyes. Three killers...two shots...Danny in a pile of blood. Then...what?? He sighed, his thick tongue trying to navigate a hot mouth. What next? He pushed and pushed, but no picture came.
He was curled on his side in a small enclosure that was moving. He smelled gas and felt every bump they hit on the road. The road. Traveling. Locked in a small enclosure. A trunk. He was trapped in a trunk. Driving. Driving where? He sighed and pushed harder, but the uneven driving caused too much driving pain in his tender skull. The last image he saw before darkness fell was his hand on another's and Danny's body in a pool of blood. He'd killed his partner.
********************
8 p.m. New York
*"Like painted kites, those days and nights went flyin' by. The world was new, beneath a blue umbrella sky Then softer than a piper man, one day it called to you And I lost you to the summer wind."*
Jack Malone sipped the hearty red wine and eased his body back into the soft leather embrace of the timeworn recliner chair. He let the smooth, silken voice of Francis Albert Sinatra soothe his soul. He picked up the wedding picture and winced painfully. They both looked so young, eyes bright with new love. What went wrong? His fault, her fault -- nobody's fault. His mistress was the job. It was one even the most stalwart wife couldn't fight. His eyes lingered on the white dress, full of hope and promise, as Frank whispered into his ear.
*"The autumn wind and the winter wind have come and gone And still the days, those lonely days, go on and on And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end. My fickle friend - the summer wind."*
The shrill ring of a phone broke his painful trip down memory lane. He put the photo down, letting his finger caress her face. Then he sat up, put the wine down and got out of the chair. He turned Frank down and made his way to the phone.
"Hello."
"Agent Malone?"
"Who's this?" Jack frowned.
"New Jersey State Trooper Edwin Coverdale, sir. I'm calling to inform you that one of your agents is being transported to a nearby trauma center. Once they stabilize him, he'll be medivac'd to New York City, to Mount Sinai."
"An accident?" he guessed out loud, thinking on wet roads and the storm.
"No sir, he was shot, during a robbery at a diner. It's off Route 9 on the way to I-95, north of Freehold."
"Shot? Who?" Malone's anxious voice queried.
"Taylor, Daniel Taylor. The EMT said the bullet went through, but he's lost a lot of blood and he's not stable."
"What about Fitzgerald?" Jack began to write notes on the pad by the phone.
"Who?"
"His partner, they were together, Martin Fitzgerald."
"Hold on."
Jack flinched and listened to the young cop talk to his partner. The words he heard made his blood chill.
"Hey Ty, what's the ID on the body in the freezer?"
"Jesus!" Malone scrubbed his face with his hands.
"Muller, Clement Muller, the waitress thinks it was his heart."
"It's not him," the cop got back on, "Sir?"
"Yeah, " Jack sighed a long breath, "I heard. Give me what you have. What's the timeline?"
"Okay, we got three live witnesses: a cook, a waitress and a customer. Your two agents walked in about two p.m. About a half-hour later the three felons stumbled in, one was wounded. We found their car in a ditch about a half-mile away, all shot to hell. That came about the same time as the 911 call."
"911?"
"Yeah, unidentified male called for help. He said a man was bleeding to death. He gave the name of the diner, then the line went dead."
"Taylor got shot during the robbery?" Malone guessed.
"No, the perps were trying to corral them all in the kitchen. They figured to clean out the register and safe, take one of the cars in the lot and head out. The waitress said the dead guy, this Muller, was pretty old with a bad heart. He had trouble and Taylor tried to help. The gunman got testy. The other guy, Fitz..."
"Fitzgerald."
"Yeah. He was up front by the register with the one gunman. The other gunman lost his patience with Taylor and the old man and went to grab him. That's when it happened."
"He shot him?"
"No, this Fitzgerald saw an opening. There was a third felon, wounded, in the booth. He cried out or something. His father was the one in charge and had turned to help him. Fitzgerald went for his gun. They struggled, the other gunman turned and both fired."
"Martin shot Danny?"
"It looks that way. About six o'clock, right after the wounded gunman died, Fitzgerald asked to talk to the father. The waitress said he made some kind of deal with them. They talked it over, shoved the witnesses into the storeroom and left. They took your agent with them."
"Was he hurt?"
"Yeah. Bullet crease in the head. Waitress said it was nasty. She said they beat the hell out of him too, while he was unconscious. She thinks maybe his ribs are broken."
"Dammit," he sighed, "Okay, I want a full report. You make sure it gets to the hospital. I want to talk to the witnesses. Who's running the investigation?"
"I don't know, Sir, you'd have to talk to my C.O., Dave Hollins. I called him already, he has your number."
"Fine. Okay."
He pulled on shoes and a coat and dialed Vivian. After updating her, he told her to get Samantha and head to the diner to see what the lab turned up. He made his way to the hospital, arriving just as the helicopter landed. He rushed to the ER, blanching when he saw just how pale and still Danny Taylor was.
"Danny," he whispered as he moved closer, eyeing the unmoving form.
"We have to x-ray him, sir. You'll have to step outside. I'll update you when I know anything," the nurse instructed.
"How is he?"
"Guarded, his vitals are good. The blood they gave him helped."
"Okay," he sighed, then walked to the waiting room and found a phone. Three rings finally brought a reply.
"F.B.I. Garvin speaking."
"Brendan, it's Jack Malone."
"Hey, Chris is looking for you," the agent replied, flagging down his boss, "Hold on, Jack."
"Jack?" Chris Boone, the head of the team assigned, pulled out his notes, "I just got off the phone to Vivian. That 911 call came from Fitzgerald."
"Martin? When?"
"It came through at 7:45 p.m. From what we got from the witnesses, that was about twenty minutes after they left. She said Fitzgerald made a deal with them. I know this kid doesn't have much background yet, but he knows we don't negotiate with --"
"We don't know all the facts yet," Malone's defenses went up, "He's a good agent. What we do have is four hostages alive, thanks to him. I want all five. Anything on the car?"
"No," he noted of Taylor's missing vehicle, taken by the trio, "Koslowski's ex died three years ago. He's got no other family in the area. I got two men at the prison talking to his cellmate. How's Taylor?"
"Stable. I'll be in touch." Jack hung up and dialed Vivian, "It's me, Danny's doing better, he's stable. They're running some tests."
"Did Boone talk to you?" she asked, watching Samantha talking to the waitress.
"Yeah, the call came from Martin?"
"Yes, I heard it. He sounded awful. He could barely get the words out. Jack, you need to hear what this waitress, Ellen Weaver, told us. For awhile, while he was lying in a pool of blood, Martin thought he'd killed Danny," she paused, hearing the deep and audible sigh, "According to her, Martin said he was going to 'make a deal with the devil'. She said he tried to talk to Danny, right before they hauled him out. Danny..."
"Danny what?"
"Danny rejected him, blamed him."
"Great." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Anything on the car?"
"Theirs? No. Stolen from Atlantic City yesterday. We're gonna finish here and head back to town. You going to the office?"
"Once I talk to the doctor. Check in with Boone again. He said a couple of his men were talkin' to this guy's cellmate."
"Jack?"
"Sam," he acknowledged the new voice.
"According to Ellen Weaver, they didn't get anything from the safe and little from the register. She said after the boy died, the father lost it. Did Boone tell you what they did to Martin?"
"Yeah."
"What could Martin have said to them?" the blond wondered aloud, "She said that Ray Koslowski Junior was getting antsy, pushing his father for a decision. Then Martin spoke to them privately and everything changed."
"Okay." He spotted a doctor signaling him. "I gotta go, we'll meet downtown." He hung up the pay phone, conferred with the doctor and headed for the elevator. The bag he held contained Danny's things and Martin's wallet. He watched the buttons light up and fingered Martin's bloody badge, which was in his hand.
"What the hell did you do, Fitzgerald?"
**************
The images came fast and furious, propelled by forces locked deep within the tortured man's soul. It was cold, there were no lights or heat. He stumbled blindly, fumbling and tripping in the endless hall. He jerked knobs, feeling desperate and fleeing something terrifying. His face was covered in sweat, his heart pounding and his small legs failing him. His sandy hair clung to his face as he stumbled forward to the last door. The heavy footsteps were closing in; he jerked the handle as a hand touched his shoulder.
"NO!"
His one working eye jerked open, his chest heaved and he struggled to breathe. He shifted his eyes around the small room. The hewn wood walls were old but secure. The bunk beneath him smelled musty, but he was warm. His cuffed hands were around a pole that went from the floor to the ceiling next to the bunk. The pain in his head had dulled somewhat, but his ribs were making up for that. Every breath was like breathing in hot, jagged shards of glass. Moreover, it was a struggle to breath. It almost felt as if a weight was on his chest.
The fog rolled out of his mind and revisited the events he could recall. His lousy mood causing trouble all day with his partner. Jack's wrath and the quiet ride on the interstate followed by a stop at the diner. Danny's wheezing face appeared on the other side of a Formica table. He thought on their short talk, taking in small amounts of air.
Danny was the first person he'd talked to about that black time in his life. Sometimes it seemed to be a bad dream, rather than a nightmare. Nightmare. Now he had a new one: the red source of life running from his partner's spent body. Danny. The cocky grin appeared and he felt a pain in his chest. He replayed the movie again, each frame in painstakingly slow motion.
Ray the dad turning to his dying son. His own gun -- his weapon taken from him -- in the killer's hand. Ray the son distracted with Danny and the old man. The sound of his heart beating, Danny's eyes meeting his...reading him and the mouth curled into the word 'no'. His body moving, two shots, two shots...blackness.
He sighed heavily, grimacing at the fire in his chest. He couldn't move on the cot too well, trying to shift from his side to his back. He inched his body up a bit, which helped. He leaned against the rough wall, feeling the splinters of wood on his neck. His jacket was gone and his shirt was maroon with his own blood.
The movie stopped playing. He thought on his actions. It was the right move, he'd had no choice. If Danny had reacted differently, taken his cue, they might be in the office now, getting the wrath of Malone. But they'd be home. Home? He closed his eye, trying to adjust to the darkness and the pain in his head. Home was New York now. For the first time in many years, he felt he had a home. He liked the unit, he liked his partner, and working for Jack Malone was the best way for him to become the best agent he could.
It had been the right move, he trusted his gut and it had told him to 'go'. Now, recalling the conversation he'd heard in that office, he knew it had been the right call. He remembered Ray the dad bent, eyes wild and lost, straying to the corpse of his younger son. Ray the son trying to reason with his father to take the offer. Ray the dad, shaking his head and moving, putting the gun, Martin's own weapon, right between Martin's eyes. He still felt the cold metal pressed to his forehead. He hadn't blinked, he'd kept his eye on the killer's. For a few seconds, he felt time stand still. Ray the dad had kept that gun there, telling Ray the son that they would 'kill them all'.
But he hadn't. He'd pulled the gun away and listened. Martin couldn't remember what he'd said to the deranged man, but that phone call had worked. He'd dialed his bank, accessed his account and let them listen. Then he asked how much for each head. Ray the son talked about Mexico and living like kings. Ray the dad agreed. They'd taken Danny's car and twenty minutes later let Martin dial 911. By now, everyone was safe.
He sighed softly, shivered a little, and thought on Danny again. More than his physical wounds, the one pain that lanced him hardest, that festered now, was the fallen man's face turning away. He doubted he'd get out of here alive to talk to Danny about the decision to move for the gun. He'd have argued his points, Danny would have come back at him. Maybe in a bar over a couple of beers.
But that day wouldn't dawn. The others lived, for that he was glad. He drifted to sleep, again seeing the dark haired agent's head turn away.
*****************
Midnight, Mount Sinai Hospital
He blinked and moaned, his tongue roaming around a dry mouth. He coughed and cried out, as his congested chest rebelled. He was hot -- too hot. His hand fumbled, dispelling sheets and blankets. His wrist hit chrome. Chrome? He blinked again, the shadows cleared and a dimly lit room came into focus. Pale walls, plastic chairs and a bedside table met his gaze. His confusion grew and he coughed again, harder this time.
"Hold on."
A voice, then a set of hands lifting his head and wiping his mouth. A straw nudged his lips.
"Take some water."
He obeyed, he knew that voice. He moaned in pleasure as the cool liquid put out the fires in his mouth. Finally done, he sighed heavily and eased back onto pillows. A motor sounded and the bed rose up. He nodded, it felt better. He saw a plastic tube running into his arm. His face screwed up in confusion as his good hand moved, touching his left shoulder, which was encased in a sling.
"You got shot."
"...shot..."
"Yeah, this afternoon. You lost some blood, but nothing broke, just torn up soft tissue. You'll be out awhile, and need therapy."
He nodded, his half-mast eyes darting slowly. Shot. Shot. He repeated the word silently in his mind. Ghosts appeared, hovering in slow motion in a gray world with booths and a counter. A diner. A bowl of soup, hot and tasty.
"World's best soup," he muttered, his eyes drifting shut.
"Danny?"
He sighed, his eyebrows moved, and he tried to open his eyes but couldn't. The ghosts began to waltz faster. A troubled face over the table, wide blue eyes spilling dark secrets from a troubled soul. But the demon stopped him, causing the blue-eyed man to pale and panic.
"...holdin' out on me..."
"What?"
He mumbled, turned away from the bedside guest and pressed his face into the pillow. The ghosts were upset, something was wrong. The storm raged, the wind howled and a cold air filled the cozy space. Three phantoms appeared with bloody red eyes. Harsh words, a struggle, a set of blue eyes meeting his own and a split second decision.
"NO!"
"Hey, calm down!"
He resisted the strong arms pressing him back and felt the pain explode again in his shoulder. Then blackness. The dark sands shifted and the images changed. The face appeared again, battered and bloodied. Cuffed hands reached out to him, an eye much too wide and emotive wanted reassurance and understanding. He turned away. The phantoms appeared, hauling the tortured soul away. Then he locked onto the blue eye and that face. He saw right through the troubled window to the soul. He knew, then, what had transpired.
"Son-of-a-bitch!"
"Take it easy, Danny."
He sat up, ignoring the pain slamming him and the concerned face of his boss. Jack was trying to get him to lie back down.
"Let go of me!" he argued, "Where is he?"
"I don't know." Malone observed the pain laced eyes and rapid breathing. "You need to calm down."
"Calm!" he vented, pounding his right fist into the bed, "I'll kick his sorry ass all the way back to Seattle. Who the hell does he think he is?" He wheezed, choked, coughed and took a drink. "Playin' God. Dammit to hell!"
"Calm down and talk to me. Tell me what happened."
It came out, slow and halting, by a young agent struggling with his own demons. Finally, it was done.
"That waitress, she was okay, Jack. She saved me. Kept her head. That kid kept shooting his mouth off, but she never lost her cool." He paused, fighting to stay awake. "He sold out."
"What?" Jack puzzled, "We don't know what he did. This deal, whatever it was, saved your lives. He's the one who called 911 -- just in time, I might add."
"He traded off, his life for ours. He don't have that right," Danny fumed. "How the hell am I supposed to live with that? Huh? When...we..." his voice broke and he swallowed hard, "find his body, riddled with bullets. Huh? My shoulders ain't that broad, Jack."
"First of all, he's alive. Don't write him off. Whatever he's cooking up, they bought in..." He saw the eyes fighting to stay open. The fist was still clenched. "Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning."
"Things won't look better unless I open my eyes and that cocky bastard is sittin' there." He eyed the empty chair. "I keep seein' them damn blue eyes of his... He reached out...for me...he needed me to understand. I cut him off -- cut out his heart. Jesus."
"Don't!" Jack pleaded, but the fist uncurled and the jaw went slack. He waited a few minutes, then lowered the bed and watched the troubled eyes darting under stilled lids. Martin and Danny each had demons to battle. It would be a long night for both.
In the darkness of the night, Danny did battle with the demons. He fought through the thick muck, brandishing a sword. It was hard to fight, his body was covered with heavy armor on a battlefield many hundreds of years old. Sweat poured from his body and his bleeding arm slowed him down. He tried to lift the heavy sword but couldn't. He saw the black knight charging, garbed head to toe in a cloak of death.
He turned and saw his partner's unprotected back. His partner was on his knees, groggy and bleeding from a head wound. His helmet was missing. He turned then, those soulful blue eyes locking on his own brown. The troubled face broke into a smile, through the blood and dirt. His armored hand rose, reaching out. Then the spectre arrived, the sword arced and Danny screamed. Martin never saw the blow coming, as his head was severed.
"HARVARD! NOOOOOO!"
*********************** Six a.m., Pine Barrens, NJ.
"Danny!"
Martin was covered in sweat, his heart hammering. The dream was so real, so vivid. He felt his neck, reassuring himself it was still attached. The word resounded around the room, bouncing off every wall. A word that had come to mean so much to him. Oh, he'd been called names before, most cruel and hurtful, as only kids can do. But this time it was different. It rolled off Danny's tongue so easily, with that sly grin.
Harvard.
It suddenly occurred to Martin that on the day prior, from the time Danny had picked him up, he'd not uttered the name. Martin hadn't realized, until this moment, just how much he missed it and how much it meant to him. It was more than a nickname -- it was a badge of honor. Something brothers do. Something he needed to hear.
His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened. Ray Junior appeared and unlocked Martin's cuffs. Ray Senior was in the doorway, bleary eyed and waving a gun.
"You gotta take a leak?" the younger Koslowski inquired.
"Yeah, why don't you duck down and I'll show you," he snapped, hissing in pain as he was hauled to his feet.
"Always the wiseass." The dark-haired man shoved the groggy agent forward.
Martin staggered badly, weak, tired, cold and hardly able to breathe. He saw a can of Pepsi and a wrapped-up sandwich. He was shoved through a door into the yard, where he shivered badly in the cold morning air and he sunk into mucky, wet thick mud.
An outhouse appeared and he wrinkled his nose, sucked in a breath and relieved himself. Then he was given five minutes to eat.
"Make the call."
Martin eyed the phone and picked it up, pushing the button. Nothing happened.
"Cell died."
"WHAT?"
The hostage dodged on instinct, preparing for a blow that never came.
"What now?" the older man asked his son.
"There's a payphone near that bait place, and it's closed for the winter."
"Yeah, okay, that's not far. Let's go." The father kept the gun trained while the cuffs were put back on and the hostage hauled up.
8:30 a.m. New York
"Malone."
Jack paused, his shirt wrinkled and his stomach soured from too much coffee. He'd been in the office all night. He'd gathered the information from the witnesses: state troopers, Boone's F.B.I. crew and what Sam and Vivian had. He rubbed his eyes and frowned, then the callers spoke.
"Jack Malone?"
"Who's askin'?" He snapped his fingers, directing the two female agents into the office. They'd gone home at one a.m. and arrived back at dawn. Vivian started a trace and he pushed the speaker button, so they all could hear.
"My name is Mark Grant. I'm the manager of First Union Bank in midtown. I got a rather strange call on my voicemail. I think it's for you, it's from Martin Fitzgerald."
"Play it!"
"This is Martin Fitzgerald, account number 13-389L4. This message is for Jack L. Malone. Listen, Jack, I need a favor. I need to move a lot of money from my trust fund, forty thousand dollars, and I need it today. I'll call back at ten to give you the bank to transfer it to. Thanks, Leeds, I owe you."
"Okay, someone from the bureau will be over to speak with you and take that tape. Is Martin a customer?"
"Yes, he opened an account a few months back. I gave him my card. He had some assets he wanted to speak about and some investments to discuss. But we never made a date."
"Okay, thanks."
"Mister Malone, that's not his account number. It's not even close."
"It's a clue of some kind. He's missing. We'll be in touch."
He hung up and furrowed his brow. "Leeds?"
"He's trying to tell you something." Sam frowned, eyeing the odd numbers. "He didn't say one, three, he said thirteen dash. Thirteen," she wrote down, "Leeds..."
Vivian's head came up and she moved around the desk next to Spade. She read the other digits.
"He's a lot more than a pretty face," the dark-skinned agent smiled. "He's in the Pine Barrens. That was smart."
"Pine Barrens?" Malone queried, "How did you figure that?"
"Mother Leed's thirteenth child." She looked at the other two. "The Jersey Devil. Ring a bell?"
"That half monster thing that steals children?" Sam frowned, "That Jersey Devil?"
"The myth is that a woman named Leeds gave birth to her thirteenth child, sired by the devil. She lived in shack in the Pine Barrens. Thirteen," she pointed, "Three, Eight, Nine...is C, H,I...."
"L, D," Sam finished, "We've got ninety minutes."
"Maybe less." Vivian ran back into the large outer room to her desk. She shoved papers around until she found the right one. Jack and Sam were now next to her. "I spoke to the warden of the prison Koslowski was in yesterday. He never had many visitors. But," she moved her finger, "here, Milton Dacey, 'Dace', his wife's father. He died about eight years ago."
"So?" Jack didn't follow the logic.
"The warden remembered him because he was so odd. He dressed in clothes from years ago, talked with a strange accent. They joked about him. Called him 'Piney'."
"He lived in the Pine Barrens." Sam felt a flicker of hope.
"I'd bet on it," Johnson replied.
"Get the address," Malone barked, but Sam was already dialing the phone. "I'll update Boone, you call the state troopers. Oh, somebody call Danny."
*****************
9:30 a.m., deep in the Pine Barrens.
They crept in slowly, surrounding the tiny shack. Jack nodded and Boone went in first, gun drawn.
"FBI!"
The echo came around the small room and went out the door. Food, empty bottles and other trash were strewn about. Jack stooped and picked up a cell phone.
"It's Martin's."
"He was in here."
Jack eyed the tiny empty room and sighed in frustration. He picked up the charcoal gray suit jacket, wincing at the large maroon stains on it.
"We got tracks out back."
"Let's go," Boone answered the agent at the door.
"Yeah?" Jack answered his ringing phone. "Good. Where? No they're not here." He eyed the driver. "Chris, Vivian said the phone call Martin made came from a payphone at a bait shack about two miles from here."
"I've got a visual on the car!"
Sam's voice came through the radio from the lead car. Jack craned his neck, spotting Danny's car parked outside a tiny shack with the words 'Live Bait' in red letters on a worn gray sign.
Jack jumped out and ran to the car. The door was open and a body was lying on the wet, muddy ground beside it. The back tire was flat.
"He's dead," Sam said, eyeing the hole in the corpse's throat. She looked up at her boss' worried face, "So where are Martin and Ray Koslowski Junior?"
"Jack," Boone called him over, pointing to the back seat, "If that's what I think it is, we're running out of time."
Jack Malone eyed the blood on the floor behind the driver's seat. Bloody vomit. His eyes went to the seat, also stained with blood. The words came back, a crease in the head, and the harsh, labored breathing he'd heard on the phone.
"What?" Sam came abreast of him, peering in the door.
"Martin," the tired leader replied, "His lung's popped. We don't find him soon, he'll choke to death on his own blood."
He walked several feet away, hands on tense hips, eyeing the thick, wet muddy road. High grasses, some as tall as him, covered the area as far as the eye could see. He shifted his weight, scowled at the gray sky and sighed.
"Where the hell are you, Martin?"
******************
The combination of a very rough ride, his delicate head hitting a hard carpet, and the stench of vomit woke him up. He turned away from the smell, pulled his cuffed hands up to wipe his mouth and blinked.
Darkness. Total darkness cloaked him, smothering him and sending his heart into a frenzied dance. His throbbing skull and burning ribcage added to the inferno. Flashes popped into his throbbing skull. A diner, bright and homey. A waitress, her tired eyes lit and a kind smile. Danny's runny eyes. Three killers...two shots...Danny in a pile of blood. Then...what?? He sighed, his thick tongue trying to navigate a hot mouth. What next? He pushed and pushed, but no picture came.
He was curled on his side in a small enclosure that was moving. He smelled gas and felt every bump they hit on the road. The road. Traveling. Locked in a small enclosure. A trunk. He was trapped in a trunk. Driving. Driving where? He sighed and pushed harder, but the uneven driving caused too much driving pain in his tender skull. The last image he saw before darkness fell was his hand on another's and Danny's body in a pool of blood. He'd killed his partner.
********************
8 p.m. New York
*"Like painted kites, those days and nights went flyin' by. The world was new, beneath a blue umbrella sky Then softer than a piper man, one day it called to you And I lost you to the summer wind."*
Jack Malone sipped the hearty red wine and eased his body back into the soft leather embrace of the timeworn recliner chair. He let the smooth, silken voice of Francis Albert Sinatra soothe his soul. He picked up the wedding picture and winced painfully. They both looked so young, eyes bright with new love. What went wrong? His fault, her fault -- nobody's fault. His mistress was the job. It was one even the most stalwart wife couldn't fight. His eyes lingered on the white dress, full of hope and promise, as Frank whispered into his ear.
*"The autumn wind and the winter wind have come and gone And still the days, those lonely days, go on and on And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end. My fickle friend - the summer wind."*
The shrill ring of a phone broke his painful trip down memory lane. He put the photo down, letting his finger caress her face. Then he sat up, put the wine down and got out of the chair. He turned Frank down and made his way to the phone.
"Hello."
"Agent Malone?"
"Who's this?" Jack frowned.
"New Jersey State Trooper Edwin Coverdale, sir. I'm calling to inform you that one of your agents is being transported to a nearby trauma center. Once they stabilize him, he'll be medivac'd to New York City, to Mount Sinai."
"An accident?" he guessed out loud, thinking on wet roads and the storm.
"No sir, he was shot, during a robbery at a diner. It's off Route 9 on the way to I-95, north of Freehold."
"Shot? Who?" Malone's anxious voice queried.
"Taylor, Daniel Taylor. The EMT said the bullet went through, but he's lost a lot of blood and he's not stable."
"What about Fitzgerald?" Jack began to write notes on the pad by the phone.
"Who?"
"His partner, they were together, Martin Fitzgerald."
"Hold on."
Jack flinched and listened to the young cop talk to his partner. The words he heard made his blood chill.
"Hey Ty, what's the ID on the body in the freezer?"
"Jesus!" Malone scrubbed his face with his hands.
"Muller, Clement Muller, the waitress thinks it was his heart."
"It's not him," the cop got back on, "Sir?"
"Yeah, " Jack sighed a long breath, "I heard. Give me what you have. What's the timeline?"
"Okay, we got three live witnesses: a cook, a waitress and a customer. Your two agents walked in about two p.m. About a half-hour later the three felons stumbled in, one was wounded. We found their car in a ditch about a half-mile away, all shot to hell. That came about the same time as the 911 call."
"911?"
"Yeah, unidentified male called for help. He said a man was bleeding to death. He gave the name of the diner, then the line went dead."
"Taylor got shot during the robbery?" Malone guessed.
"No, the perps were trying to corral them all in the kitchen. They figured to clean out the register and safe, take one of the cars in the lot and head out. The waitress said the dead guy, this Muller, was pretty old with a bad heart. He had trouble and Taylor tried to help. The gunman got testy. The other guy, Fitz..."
"Fitzgerald."
"Yeah. He was up front by the register with the one gunman. The other gunman lost his patience with Taylor and the old man and went to grab him. That's when it happened."
"He shot him?"
"No, this Fitzgerald saw an opening. There was a third felon, wounded, in the booth. He cried out or something. His father was the one in charge and had turned to help him. Fitzgerald went for his gun. They struggled, the other gunman turned and both fired."
"Martin shot Danny?"
"It looks that way. About six o'clock, right after the wounded gunman died, Fitzgerald asked to talk to the father. The waitress said he made some kind of deal with them. They talked it over, shoved the witnesses into the storeroom and left. They took your agent with them."
"Was he hurt?"
"Yeah. Bullet crease in the head. Waitress said it was nasty. She said they beat the hell out of him too, while he was unconscious. She thinks maybe his ribs are broken."
"Dammit," he sighed, "Okay, I want a full report. You make sure it gets to the hospital. I want to talk to the witnesses. Who's running the investigation?"
"I don't know, Sir, you'd have to talk to my C.O., Dave Hollins. I called him already, he has your number."
"Fine. Okay."
He pulled on shoes and a coat and dialed Vivian. After updating her, he told her to get Samantha and head to the diner to see what the lab turned up. He made his way to the hospital, arriving just as the helicopter landed. He rushed to the ER, blanching when he saw just how pale and still Danny Taylor was.
"Danny," he whispered as he moved closer, eyeing the unmoving form.
"We have to x-ray him, sir. You'll have to step outside. I'll update you when I know anything," the nurse instructed.
"How is he?"
"Guarded, his vitals are good. The blood they gave him helped."
"Okay," he sighed, then walked to the waiting room and found a phone. Three rings finally brought a reply.
"F.B.I. Garvin speaking."
"Brendan, it's Jack Malone."
"Hey, Chris is looking for you," the agent replied, flagging down his boss, "Hold on, Jack."
"Jack?" Chris Boone, the head of the team assigned, pulled out his notes, "I just got off the phone to Vivian. That 911 call came from Fitzgerald."
"Martin? When?"
"It came through at 7:45 p.m. From what we got from the witnesses, that was about twenty minutes after they left. She said Fitzgerald made a deal with them. I know this kid doesn't have much background yet, but he knows we don't negotiate with --"
"We don't know all the facts yet," Malone's defenses went up, "He's a good agent. What we do have is four hostages alive, thanks to him. I want all five. Anything on the car?"
"No," he noted of Taylor's missing vehicle, taken by the trio, "Koslowski's ex died three years ago. He's got no other family in the area. I got two men at the prison talking to his cellmate. How's Taylor?"
"Stable. I'll be in touch." Jack hung up and dialed Vivian, "It's me, Danny's doing better, he's stable. They're running some tests."
"Did Boone talk to you?" she asked, watching Samantha talking to the waitress.
"Yeah, the call came from Martin?"
"Yes, I heard it. He sounded awful. He could barely get the words out. Jack, you need to hear what this waitress, Ellen Weaver, told us. For awhile, while he was lying in a pool of blood, Martin thought he'd killed Danny," she paused, hearing the deep and audible sigh, "According to her, Martin said he was going to 'make a deal with the devil'. She said he tried to talk to Danny, right before they hauled him out. Danny..."
"Danny what?"
"Danny rejected him, blamed him."
"Great." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Anything on the car?"
"Theirs? No. Stolen from Atlantic City yesterday. We're gonna finish here and head back to town. You going to the office?"
"Once I talk to the doctor. Check in with Boone again. He said a couple of his men were talkin' to this guy's cellmate."
"Jack?"
"Sam," he acknowledged the new voice.
"According to Ellen Weaver, they didn't get anything from the safe and little from the register. She said after the boy died, the father lost it. Did Boone tell you what they did to Martin?"
"Yeah."
"What could Martin have said to them?" the blond wondered aloud, "She said that Ray Koslowski Junior was getting antsy, pushing his father for a decision. Then Martin spoke to them privately and everything changed."
"Okay." He spotted a doctor signaling him. "I gotta go, we'll meet downtown." He hung up the pay phone, conferred with the doctor and headed for the elevator. The bag he held contained Danny's things and Martin's wallet. He watched the buttons light up and fingered Martin's bloody badge, which was in his hand.
"What the hell did you do, Fitzgerald?"
**************
The images came fast and furious, propelled by forces locked deep within the tortured man's soul. It was cold, there were no lights or heat. He stumbled blindly, fumbling and tripping in the endless hall. He jerked knobs, feeling desperate and fleeing something terrifying. His face was covered in sweat, his heart pounding and his small legs failing him. His sandy hair clung to his face as he stumbled forward to the last door. The heavy footsteps were closing in; he jerked the handle as a hand touched his shoulder.
"NO!"
His one working eye jerked open, his chest heaved and he struggled to breathe. He shifted his eyes around the small room. The hewn wood walls were old but secure. The bunk beneath him smelled musty, but he was warm. His cuffed hands were around a pole that went from the floor to the ceiling next to the bunk. The pain in his head had dulled somewhat, but his ribs were making up for that. Every breath was like breathing in hot, jagged shards of glass. Moreover, it was a struggle to breath. It almost felt as if a weight was on his chest.
The fog rolled out of his mind and revisited the events he could recall. His lousy mood causing trouble all day with his partner. Jack's wrath and the quiet ride on the interstate followed by a stop at the diner. Danny's wheezing face appeared on the other side of a Formica table. He thought on their short talk, taking in small amounts of air.
Danny was the first person he'd talked to about that black time in his life. Sometimes it seemed to be a bad dream, rather than a nightmare. Nightmare. Now he had a new one: the red source of life running from his partner's spent body. Danny. The cocky grin appeared and he felt a pain in his chest. He replayed the movie again, each frame in painstakingly slow motion.
Ray the dad turning to his dying son. His own gun -- his weapon taken from him -- in the killer's hand. Ray the son distracted with Danny and the old man. The sound of his heart beating, Danny's eyes meeting his...reading him and the mouth curled into the word 'no'. His body moving, two shots, two shots...blackness.
He sighed heavily, grimacing at the fire in his chest. He couldn't move on the cot too well, trying to shift from his side to his back. He inched his body up a bit, which helped. He leaned against the rough wall, feeling the splinters of wood on his neck. His jacket was gone and his shirt was maroon with his own blood.
The movie stopped playing. He thought on his actions. It was the right move, he'd had no choice. If Danny had reacted differently, taken his cue, they might be in the office now, getting the wrath of Malone. But they'd be home. Home? He closed his eye, trying to adjust to the darkness and the pain in his head. Home was New York now. For the first time in many years, he felt he had a home. He liked the unit, he liked his partner, and working for Jack Malone was the best way for him to become the best agent he could.
It had been the right move, he trusted his gut and it had told him to 'go'. Now, recalling the conversation he'd heard in that office, he knew it had been the right call. He remembered Ray the dad bent, eyes wild and lost, straying to the corpse of his younger son. Ray the son trying to reason with his father to take the offer. Ray the dad, shaking his head and moving, putting the gun, Martin's own weapon, right between Martin's eyes. He still felt the cold metal pressed to his forehead. He hadn't blinked, he'd kept his eye on the killer's. For a few seconds, he felt time stand still. Ray the dad had kept that gun there, telling Ray the son that they would 'kill them all'.
But he hadn't. He'd pulled the gun away and listened. Martin couldn't remember what he'd said to the deranged man, but that phone call had worked. He'd dialed his bank, accessed his account and let them listen. Then he asked how much for each head. Ray the son talked about Mexico and living like kings. Ray the dad agreed. They'd taken Danny's car and twenty minutes later let Martin dial 911. By now, everyone was safe.
He sighed softly, shivered a little, and thought on Danny again. More than his physical wounds, the one pain that lanced him hardest, that festered now, was the fallen man's face turning away. He doubted he'd get out of here alive to talk to Danny about the decision to move for the gun. He'd have argued his points, Danny would have come back at him. Maybe in a bar over a couple of beers.
But that day wouldn't dawn. The others lived, for that he was glad. He drifted to sleep, again seeing the dark haired agent's head turn away.
*****************
Midnight, Mount Sinai Hospital
He blinked and moaned, his tongue roaming around a dry mouth. He coughed and cried out, as his congested chest rebelled. He was hot -- too hot. His hand fumbled, dispelling sheets and blankets. His wrist hit chrome. Chrome? He blinked again, the shadows cleared and a dimly lit room came into focus. Pale walls, plastic chairs and a bedside table met his gaze. His confusion grew and he coughed again, harder this time.
"Hold on."
A voice, then a set of hands lifting his head and wiping his mouth. A straw nudged his lips.
"Take some water."
He obeyed, he knew that voice. He moaned in pleasure as the cool liquid put out the fires in his mouth. Finally done, he sighed heavily and eased back onto pillows. A motor sounded and the bed rose up. He nodded, it felt better. He saw a plastic tube running into his arm. His face screwed up in confusion as his good hand moved, touching his left shoulder, which was encased in a sling.
"You got shot."
"...shot..."
"Yeah, this afternoon. You lost some blood, but nothing broke, just torn up soft tissue. You'll be out awhile, and need therapy."
He nodded, his half-mast eyes darting slowly. Shot. Shot. He repeated the word silently in his mind. Ghosts appeared, hovering in slow motion in a gray world with booths and a counter. A diner. A bowl of soup, hot and tasty.
"World's best soup," he muttered, his eyes drifting shut.
"Danny?"
He sighed, his eyebrows moved, and he tried to open his eyes but couldn't. The ghosts began to waltz faster. A troubled face over the table, wide blue eyes spilling dark secrets from a troubled soul. But the demon stopped him, causing the blue-eyed man to pale and panic.
"...holdin' out on me..."
"What?"
He mumbled, turned away from the bedside guest and pressed his face into the pillow. The ghosts were upset, something was wrong. The storm raged, the wind howled and a cold air filled the cozy space. Three phantoms appeared with bloody red eyes. Harsh words, a struggle, a set of blue eyes meeting his own and a split second decision.
"NO!"
"Hey, calm down!"
He resisted the strong arms pressing him back and felt the pain explode again in his shoulder. Then blackness. The dark sands shifted and the images changed. The face appeared again, battered and bloodied. Cuffed hands reached out to him, an eye much too wide and emotive wanted reassurance and understanding. He turned away. The phantoms appeared, hauling the tortured soul away. Then he locked onto the blue eye and that face. He saw right through the troubled window to the soul. He knew, then, what had transpired.
"Son-of-a-bitch!"
"Take it easy, Danny."
He sat up, ignoring the pain slamming him and the concerned face of his boss. Jack was trying to get him to lie back down.
"Let go of me!" he argued, "Where is he?"
"I don't know." Malone observed the pain laced eyes and rapid breathing. "You need to calm down."
"Calm!" he vented, pounding his right fist into the bed, "I'll kick his sorry ass all the way back to Seattle. Who the hell does he think he is?" He wheezed, choked, coughed and took a drink. "Playin' God. Dammit to hell!"
"Calm down and talk to me. Tell me what happened."
It came out, slow and halting, by a young agent struggling with his own demons. Finally, it was done.
"That waitress, she was okay, Jack. She saved me. Kept her head. That kid kept shooting his mouth off, but she never lost her cool." He paused, fighting to stay awake. "He sold out."
"What?" Jack puzzled, "We don't know what he did. This deal, whatever it was, saved your lives. He's the one who called 911 -- just in time, I might add."
"He traded off, his life for ours. He don't have that right," Danny fumed. "How the hell am I supposed to live with that? Huh? When...we..." his voice broke and he swallowed hard, "find his body, riddled with bullets. Huh? My shoulders ain't that broad, Jack."
"First of all, he's alive. Don't write him off. Whatever he's cooking up, they bought in..." He saw the eyes fighting to stay open. The fist was still clenched. "Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning."
"Things won't look better unless I open my eyes and that cocky bastard is sittin' there." He eyed the empty chair. "I keep seein' them damn blue eyes of his... He reached out...for me...he needed me to understand. I cut him off -- cut out his heart. Jesus."
"Don't!" Jack pleaded, but the fist uncurled and the jaw went slack. He waited a few minutes, then lowered the bed and watched the troubled eyes darting under stilled lids. Martin and Danny each had demons to battle. It would be a long night for both.
In the darkness of the night, Danny did battle with the demons. He fought through the thick muck, brandishing a sword. It was hard to fight, his body was covered with heavy armor on a battlefield many hundreds of years old. Sweat poured from his body and his bleeding arm slowed him down. He tried to lift the heavy sword but couldn't. He saw the black knight charging, garbed head to toe in a cloak of death.
He turned and saw his partner's unprotected back. His partner was on his knees, groggy and bleeding from a head wound. His helmet was missing. He turned then, those soulful blue eyes locking on his own brown. The troubled face broke into a smile, through the blood and dirt. His armored hand rose, reaching out. Then the spectre arrived, the sword arced and Danny screamed. Martin never saw the blow coming, as his head was severed.
"HARVARD! NOOOOOO!"
*********************** Six a.m., Pine Barrens, NJ.
"Danny!"
Martin was covered in sweat, his heart hammering. The dream was so real, so vivid. He felt his neck, reassuring himself it was still attached. The word resounded around the room, bouncing off every wall. A word that had come to mean so much to him. Oh, he'd been called names before, most cruel and hurtful, as only kids can do. But this time it was different. It rolled off Danny's tongue so easily, with that sly grin.
Harvard.
It suddenly occurred to Martin that on the day prior, from the time Danny had picked him up, he'd not uttered the name. Martin hadn't realized, until this moment, just how much he missed it and how much it meant to him. It was more than a nickname -- it was a badge of honor. Something brothers do. Something he needed to hear.
His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened. Ray Junior appeared and unlocked Martin's cuffs. Ray Senior was in the doorway, bleary eyed and waving a gun.
"You gotta take a leak?" the younger Koslowski inquired.
"Yeah, why don't you duck down and I'll show you," he snapped, hissing in pain as he was hauled to his feet.
"Always the wiseass." The dark-haired man shoved the groggy agent forward.
Martin staggered badly, weak, tired, cold and hardly able to breathe. He saw a can of Pepsi and a wrapped-up sandwich. He was shoved through a door into the yard, where he shivered badly in the cold morning air and he sunk into mucky, wet thick mud.
An outhouse appeared and he wrinkled his nose, sucked in a breath and relieved himself. Then he was given five minutes to eat.
"Make the call."
Martin eyed the phone and picked it up, pushing the button. Nothing happened.
"Cell died."
"WHAT?"
The hostage dodged on instinct, preparing for a blow that never came.
"What now?" the older man asked his son.
"There's a payphone near that bait place, and it's closed for the winter."
"Yeah, okay, that's not far. Let's go." The father kept the gun trained while the cuffs were put back on and the hostage hauled up.
8:30 a.m. New York
"Malone."
Jack paused, his shirt wrinkled and his stomach soured from too much coffee. He'd been in the office all night. He'd gathered the information from the witnesses: state troopers, Boone's F.B.I. crew and what Sam and Vivian had. He rubbed his eyes and frowned, then the callers spoke.
"Jack Malone?"
"Who's askin'?" He snapped his fingers, directing the two female agents into the office. They'd gone home at one a.m. and arrived back at dawn. Vivian started a trace and he pushed the speaker button, so they all could hear.
"My name is Mark Grant. I'm the manager of First Union Bank in midtown. I got a rather strange call on my voicemail. I think it's for you, it's from Martin Fitzgerald."
"Play it!"
"This is Martin Fitzgerald, account number 13-389L4. This message is for Jack L. Malone. Listen, Jack, I need a favor. I need to move a lot of money from my trust fund, forty thousand dollars, and I need it today. I'll call back at ten to give you the bank to transfer it to. Thanks, Leeds, I owe you."
"Okay, someone from the bureau will be over to speak with you and take that tape. Is Martin a customer?"
"Yes, he opened an account a few months back. I gave him my card. He had some assets he wanted to speak about and some investments to discuss. But we never made a date."
"Okay, thanks."
"Mister Malone, that's not his account number. It's not even close."
"It's a clue of some kind. He's missing. We'll be in touch."
He hung up and furrowed his brow. "Leeds?"
"He's trying to tell you something." Sam frowned, eyeing the odd numbers. "He didn't say one, three, he said thirteen dash. Thirteen," she wrote down, "Leeds..."
Vivian's head came up and she moved around the desk next to Spade. She read the other digits.
"He's a lot more than a pretty face," the dark-skinned agent smiled. "He's in the Pine Barrens. That was smart."
"Pine Barrens?" Malone queried, "How did you figure that?"
"Mother Leed's thirteenth child." She looked at the other two. "The Jersey Devil. Ring a bell?"
"That half monster thing that steals children?" Sam frowned, "That Jersey Devil?"
"The myth is that a woman named Leeds gave birth to her thirteenth child, sired by the devil. She lived in shack in the Pine Barrens. Thirteen," she pointed, "Three, Eight, Nine...is C, H,I...."
"L, D," Sam finished, "We've got ninety minutes."
"Maybe less." Vivian ran back into the large outer room to her desk. She shoved papers around until she found the right one. Jack and Sam were now next to her. "I spoke to the warden of the prison Koslowski was in yesterday. He never had many visitors. But," she moved her finger, "here, Milton Dacey, 'Dace', his wife's father. He died about eight years ago."
"So?" Jack didn't follow the logic.
"The warden remembered him because he was so odd. He dressed in clothes from years ago, talked with a strange accent. They joked about him. Called him 'Piney'."
"He lived in the Pine Barrens." Sam felt a flicker of hope.
"I'd bet on it," Johnson replied.
"Get the address," Malone barked, but Sam was already dialing the phone. "I'll update Boone, you call the state troopers. Oh, somebody call Danny."
*****************
9:30 a.m., deep in the Pine Barrens.
They crept in slowly, surrounding the tiny shack. Jack nodded and Boone went in first, gun drawn.
"FBI!"
The echo came around the small room and went out the door. Food, empty bottles and other trash were strewn about. Jack stooped and picked up a cell phone.
"It's Martin's."
"He was in here."
Jack eyed the tiny empty room and sighed in frustration. He picked up the charcoal gray suit jacket, wincing at the large maroon stains on it.
"We got tracks out back."
"Let's go," Boone answered the agent at the door.
"Yeah?" Jack answered his ringing phone. "Good. Where? No they're not here." He eyed the driver. "Chris, Vivian said the phone call Martin made came from a payphone at a bait shack about two miles from here."
"I've got a visual on the car!"
Sam's voice came through the radio from the lead car. Jack craned his neck, spotting Danny's car parked outside a tiny shack with the words 'Live Bait' in red letters on a worn gray sign.
Jack jumped out and ran to the car. The door was open and a body was lying on the wet, muddy ground beside it. The back tire was flat.
"He's dead," Sam said, eyeing the hole in the corpse's throat. She looked up at her boss' worried face, "So where are Martin and Ray Koslowski Junior?"
"Jack," Boone called him over, pointing to the back seat, "If that's what I think it is, we're running out of time."
Jack Malone eyed the blood on the floor behind the driver's seat. Bloody vomit. His eyes went to the seat, also stained with blood. The words came back, a crease in the head, and the harsh, labored breathing he'd heard on the phone.
"What?" Sam came abreast of him, peering in the door.
"Martin," the tired leader replied, "His lung's popped. We don't find him soon, he'll choke to death on his own blood."
He walked several feet away, hands on tense hips, eyeing the thick, wet muddy road. High grasses, some as tall as him, covered the area as far as the eye could see. He shifted his weight, scowled at the gray sky and sighed.
"Where the hell are you, Martin?"
******************
