As Lilly spoke, Reed stole a look around the kitchen.
She was invited along by Mike earlier
when she sat lunching with him. Mike had received
a phone call that Ben wanted to meet him
at Cassi's house.
Meeting Ben had been a warm experience. When Mike
introduced her, she smiled genuinely.
"Mr. Stone it is an honor to meet you. I've heard
good things about you."
"From who?"
"An old colleague of yours, Shambala Green. She
has a practice in DC and told me some
stories. You're legendary!" She laughed easily.
Ben grinned at her. She liked the way he
carried himself.
"Oh well," he shrugged, "Miss Green was pretty legendary herself."
Lilly's voice carried her back to the present.
She sat between Mike and Ben, both formidable
men.
Reed Macy felt very comfortable around powerful
men. She had plenty of experience and was
not easily threatened or intimidated.
"Maastrict! What's the matter, boy?" The sound of the
teenage girl's voice made Reed look out
the window. And fearful tingles played her back
almost before she knew why.
Two girls were standing beside a large dog who
had dropped on its haunches at the back end
of a big rig which had been parked across the
street a few minutes earlier.
Reed knew what breed the dog was...Belgian Malinois.
One of the best bomb sniffers.
And behaving exactly as if it was smelling explosives.
Mike had seen footage of bomb-sniffing dogs at
work and felt his body go cold as if he were
already dead.
The kids were still trying to coax the dog up,
but it stayed put and looked at them as if to say
*Where's my reward?*
*Heaven, maybe.* Mike's heart raced and his mouth
was bone-dry. In a thick voice he said,
"Ben, it's time to take Lilly to see Jack McCoy."
Lilly said, What's wr...?"
"Now! And close the door quietly."
Ben and Lilly rose to leave. Both looked fearful and moved softly.
Mike picked up a food scrap and headed to the door
with Reed at his side. They walked
briskly but quietly to the rear of the truck.
"That's a police dog, right?" Mike said.
"He retired last year. How'd you know?" said the younger girl.
"We cops can spot each other, man or beast." Mike
bent and fed the friendly-looking dog.
"There's a good boy."
Reed said, "Are either of your parents cops?"
"Our dad. He's a vice sarge at the 12th," said
the older girl, who was built like a tank but
looked innocent as her sister.
Mike said, "Lorne Reynolds?" The girls nodded.
Reed gazed firmly at the girls and said, "Maastrict,
I want you to take your ladies home so
they can tell their dad how you just went back
to work. Quick and quiet as you can." She took
out her pocket phone and punched 9-1-1 as the
girls led Maastrict away.
7:50 PM
The head of the bomb squad--Paul Cringan--trembled and sweated.
"Th--that was radio-controlled *and* had a timer.
Should've blown both these blocks past the
stars. Detonator must've been defective. These
people should sue the manufacturer." Cringan
continued to shake even after Macy--who was not
in much better shape--patted his shoulder.
Everyone looked pale. Lorry Reynolds was rage-white.
He said to Logan, "Done. I lay a hand
on these people, they're ground chuck."
"Take a number, Sarge. Look, time for Macy and
I to see McCoy. We just might have the
key."
"You let me know!" Reynolds balled a ham-sized
fist and smacked it into the hard paw of his
other hand.
12:02 AM, January 30: District Attorney Adam Schiff rubbed
his weary eyes and shook his
head. For hours he and Jack and Abbie had listened
to stories and sifted through evidence.
Now the time had come for action.
Arrest warrants would be served on Eugene Masucci
and Sam Catchpole in the morning. Jack
had insisted that Judge Sullivan be arrested also,
but Adam wanted to proceed cautiously
against him.
Lilly O'Connor, aka Lilly McBride, would have all
charges dismissed in exchange for her
testimony against the accused parties. She had
retained Paul Robinette as her attorney. She
would stay with him overnight, along with her
'guard' Mike Logan. After dawn the three would
drive to DC, where Shambala Green would put Lilly
and Mike up.
Adam called his chauffeur, told him to be ready in five minutes, then put on his hat and coat.
"Good night, people."
Madison Holton leaned back in her chair, stretching
tiredly, eyes on Caitlin. "So what do you
think?" She caught the flash of grim humor in
Caitlin’s eyes. "Don't say he did it because he
hates cops. That's obvious."
Caitlin smirked. "Okay, deep seated childhood trauma.
Mommy told him 'that policeman over
there will get you if you don't behave' one too
many times."
“Falconetti-”
Madison’s voice held a note of warning, and Caitlin
sighed. “Okay, off the top of my head?
He’s got a rigid sense of right and wrong -- everything
is is black and white; there are no gray
areas. He can justify his actions by telling himself
he’s doing this for ‘the good of society.’ His
everyday life is probably incredibly
ordinary, and Sullivan has been a godsend for
him.” Caitlin shook her head. “We have to be
careful because more than likely he’ll be willing
to martyr himself for his cause.”
Madison dragged her hands down her face, wishing
she was back home, anywhere but here
dealing with
this mess. “So I guess this won’t be the only
one?”
“No,” Caitlin said direly. “This won’t be the only
one.”
The second death occurred at 5:12 a.m. on January 30.
Caitlin met Holton and O'Hara at the edge of Central
Park, where a mounted officer had been
ambushed and killed.
"Well," Madison said with dark irony, "you said there'd be more."
Caitlin, staring at the covered body in the snow,
nodded, old memories rising to swamp her.
"That's why we have to stop him," she said softly.
**
By 8:00 a.m., Hiram Sullivan was on the news, speaking
out of both sides of his mouth. On
one breath, he decried the violent deaths, and
in the next, he insinuated that the officers
deserved it for working with a corrupt department.
Watching in the dayroom at the 15th precinct with
Madison Holton, Caitlin shook her head.
"The man is not only irresponible, he's insane.
He has to realize he's only fueling this guy."
"Maybe he does," Madison replied. "Maybe that's what he wants."
Hiram Sullivan spoke into the phone. "You've done a fantastic
job. To really shake them up, I
want you to go after a much bigger target--Adam
Schiff. I only want him hurt. Not killed."
The woman, carrying a badge in her coat pocket,
replied. "Yes, Your Honor. I'm more than
happy to oblige."
Caitlin Falconetti glanced down at the conference
table and frowned. "Why is Cassi O'Connor's
case file here?"
Madison glanced up from her notebook and waved
at the file Caitlin had picked up. "The
investigating officer wanted it included. I guess
he assumes it was actually shooting number
one-"
"He guessed wrong," Caitlin said wryly, moving
the file aside. "It's completely out of profile.
Look, our two were uniform officers . . . the
uniforms make them anonymous. The shooter
doesn't have to realize they are people beyond
the badge. And O'Connor was shot once,
here." Caitlin tapped her forehead.
Madison shrugged. "Ours were shot in the face."
"But with a shotgun," Caitlin argued. "Not a .280.
Notice our vics' faces were obliterated. They
have to remain anonymous to him." Stopping for
a breath, Caitlin shook her head. "Send this
back to the investigating officer. He won't be
able to pin O'Connor's death on our guy."
"Yes, ma'am," Madison said mockingly. "You know who you sound like? Stant-"
"Hey, Madison." Collin O'Hara strode through the
door, a tight, harassed expression on his
freckled face. "We've got another one."
Force Plodder headquarters, 8:38 AM January 30:
"I'm getting to be just like you," the Plodder said to the Rocket.
"You're doing a good job and you know it," replied
Deitz. On paper, the Plodder was
inexperienced at command, having remained a Detective
First Grade since 1978. But his many
years at the 51st had made him the *de facto*
commander of his detective squad; lieutenants
and even captains sought advice from him at times.
He was running Force Plodder like an
experienced high-ranking officer, thought the
Rocket, who knew from gut-wrenching experience
that stress did not respect one's rank or standing.
Oromocto held his aching head. "So many changes...at
least Carol's keeping up okay." Across
the room, Carol Bonneau was at a computer, recording
the Force Plodder schedules and
personnel turnovers.
Major Schurz would leave later this morning to
resume his duties at Camp Lejeune. Mike
Logan had already left town; he and Lilly were
on their way to an undisclosed safe house.
Nevertheless, Force Plodder was larger than ever;
Lorry Reynolds, furious after his children
had walked next to a huge bomb, had inducted his
entire squad into the Force. The additions
were welcome, but Plodder was worried.
"Sometime, somehow, we just might get the mother
of all fuckups. We can't expect the other
side to stay in the dark forever."
"Can't do this without taking risks," said Deitz as he popped another Tums.
"Your kidneys'll grow stones if you..." The telephone interrupted, and Carol picked up.
"Yes?...One second." She looked at Plodder and said, "For you, boss."
Oromocto listened for a few seconds and said, "My
God! Where...What was the weapon?"
Deitz and Bonneau listened in silent horror.
January 31
6:02 a.m.
The morning had not yet danwed and the city was
bathed in darkness. Footsteps sounded
outside District Attorney's Adam Schiff's office
but the noise was drowned out by a typewriter.
The door creaked open slowly, a .38 appeared slowly
first, then black-clad figure. The shot
exploded, making its mark on the figure in the
chair.
Slowly, the figure slipped from the chair, leaving
a bloody trail. Ben Stone, who had been
working there early, laid on the floor, a pool
of blood was growing larger under his body. Still
alive, he tried to yell for help.
****
"I hate leaving you here," Tick murmured against Caitlin's
mouth. Upon his arrest, Masucci had
decided to turn as much evidence as he could to
save his own sorry hide. Tick had the
statements he needed to make an arrest against
Joseph Tyrone and was on his way back to
Georgia to do so. Wrapping an arm around her waist,
he pulled her closer and rocked her
against him for a long moment, his face in her
hair. Sighing roughly, he pulled back and grinned
down at her crookedly.
Caitlin smiled up at him, rubbing her hand down
his arm. "Fifty-three more days, Lamar
Eugene," she reminded him of their wedding countdown.
He touched a finger to her chin. "You'd better be home before then."
"I will be," Caitlin replied. "As soon as we make an arrest on the shootings. Count on it."
"I am." His boarding call came, and hefting his
carry-on, he leaned over and kissed her once
more. "See you soon, precious."
January 31
7:11 a.m.
Because it faced the alley and another building,
the apartment was still blessedly dim.
Stripping off his coat, he dropped it on the chair
and stretched out on the couch, not even
bothering to kick off his shoes.
Lilly was safely in the hands of the U.S. Marshalls'
Protective Services, and he had a couple
hours till he had to report into Oromocto.
Mike Logan slipped into an uneasy sleep filled
with dreams of a bullet exploding into his
shoulder, punctuated by a woman's frightened screams
and a sobbing child . . .
January 31
10:54 a.m.
Sighing softly, Don Cragen shifted in his seat.
Reed Macy paced up and down, quietly sipping
her coffee. The sound of running footsteps made
Donnie and Reed look up. Paul Robinette,
out of breath, skidded to a halt in front of Don.
"What's happened? How is he?"
Don shrugged. "We don't know. He's in surgery.
That was about," Don said, looking at his
watch, "about 2 hours ago."
"He sustained a bullet to his abdomen. The cleaning
crew found him about a half hour later."
Reed spoke up, her face showed no emotion, but
Don noticed her eyes reflected the worry in
her voice.
Paul looked at the youngish redhead. She looked
tired. Her frame was hidden by a flack jacket
and fatigues. Paul admired her no nonsense attitude
and she carroed herself in a professional
manner.
She crossed the room. "ATF agent Reed Macy." She shook his hand. "And you are?"
Paul introduced himself, then silence lapsed. Without
another word, the the three of them
waited on news.
Reed soon tired of pacing, leaned against the wall.
This had been one weird assignment. She
thought she was here for a routine bombing investigation.
Actually, no investigation was
routine. Finding body parts, pieces of memntos
that were disembodied was hard. Waiting at
the hospital was just as hard. She got an immediate
positive feeling from Ben, she hated that
he got caught up in the recent killings. She knew
all this was connected, but where?
January 31
3:34 p.m.
Hours passed as Don, Reed and Paul waited on news
of Ben's condition. Stomach grumbling,
Paul realized that he had not eaten since his
plane trip. Receiving a message on his cell phone,
Paul hailed a cab straight to the hospital.
"I am going to get some coffee, anyone want anything?",
asked Paul. Don and Reed shook
their heads.
Watching Paul's departing heels, Reed mused the
information she received about the bombing.
She had been in Don's office, interviewing him
about the information found at the scene, when
he answered a phone call. She remembered Don's
face turning white as he hesitantly sat in his
chair. Don invited Reed along when she expressed
concern. Now she sat in the plastic chair,
anxiously staring at the clock.
In an apartment near Gramercy, Nuala Devlin cursed
out-loud, as the anchor for the Noon
news broadcast announced that Ben Stone, EADA,
would recover from the assasination
attempt.
She was the best assasin the IRA had known, before
she had ventured out to free-lance work.
And she had shot the wrong freaking bloody bloke.
Running her fingers through her cropped raven hair,
she slammed her whiskey bottle against
the wall, as the phone rang.
West 46th Street, 4:37 PM:
Stan Oromocto felt a cautious sense of excitement
as he finished his conversation with Major
Schurz. He replaced the handset and picked up
the just-printed copies of documents which the
Major had e-mailed from his base in North Carolina.
"People, may I have your attention please!" Stan's
booming voice brought silence. "Our new
suspect is Woodrow Franks. He's a known associate
of Sam Catchpole. The Major advises
that he's also a known associate of Dwight Boam,
a Southern gentleman who's doing time for
theft of 200 tons of explosives in '95. Some of
these were recovered in that truck Logan and
Macy came across the other day. And they're the
same kind which killed those kids at
Whitestone."
Morris LaMotte said, "How can we be sure that Franks was involved in any of this?"
"Good question. The people who handled the explosives
wore gloves. And as we know, gloves
*never ever* tear."
"You're saying there's a partial?"
"A fresh one. Which I faxed to the Major. Woody's
an ex-jarhead--got booted for possession of
stolen property--and the Major found a perfect
match."
Kelson said, "Hope no one goes busting into his house."
The Plodder smiled and said, "I've also seen *Speed.*
We'll get bomb specialists like Reed
and trained dogs..."
"Like Maastrict," said Lorry Reynolds.
"Exactly. Now people, we've got to plan this carefully..."
By 5:30, a surveillance detail was in place around
the Franks house and evacuation of his
neighbours began a few minutes later.
The Franks House
Spuyten Duyvil, The Bronx
6:20 PM January 31.
ATF Agents Reed Macy, Dan Sidoroff and Phil Redding
wore face shields and body armor as
they inspected the yard and house. With them was
a Belgian Malinois named Alphons.
The dog padded to a basement window and sat. Reed's
heart pounded as cold fear washed
her core. She and the others approached Alphons
carefully.
Reed fed the dog a Baco-Bit and managed to utter
a husky, "Good boy, Big Al" from her
suddenly-dry throat. The window was open by a
millimeter or two and she waved the men
back. She heard the roar of blood in her ears
as she led Alphons away.
6:27 PM: As Woody Franks drove north on the Henry Hudson
Parkway, he noticed the many
brake lights far ahead. *Someone must've racked
up on the Washington turnoff,* he thought.
He was pissed about the potential delay, and his
stomach growled with his mind. He wanted
food and beer.
Then he remembered that he'd bought a six-pack
this afternoon. He'd been so busy meeting
with the guys that he hadn't drunk any. But he
needed a Bud now, to calm his nerves. There
were 100 pounds of blasting caps in the false
bottom of his car's trunk.
He drove to the shoulder and stopped. He grabbed a can and opened it.
That's when the siren whooped as a big cruiser
cut in front of him. Another car was right on his
rear, lights flashing. Blinding spotlights flooded
him.
A harsh voice barked, "Driver! Keep your hands where I can see them! Drop the can!"
The can bounced between his legs and spilled cold
brew on his crotch.
7:30 PM: Adam Schiff turned off the television and put
on his winter wear. The Franks house
was secure, but it would take hours to remove
all the explosives.
Meanwhile, there was still time to visit Ben. Adam
went to the elevator with his three-man
NYPD bodyguard.
They went to the garage, where the Lincoln and
its driver waited. They were halfway between
the elevator and the car when Patrolman Carl Merzetti,
the youngest of the cops, noticed the
bright spot of speckled red light dancing on Adam's
head. *Laser!*
Merzetti pulled Schiff to the floor and yelled,
"Gun!" He heard Sergeant Coleman scream in
pain. He pulled out his revolver and looked...
And red agony blew away his sight.
The grim-faced ER doctor--Rippon--spoke to Jack McCoy and Abbie Carmichael at 8:13 PM.
"It's too early to give a prognosis for Coleman
and Merzetti. They'll have to see an eye
specialist. As for Mr. Schiff..."
"I'll live!" Adam said. He stood near the doctor. His right hand was immobilized.
"You'll have to watch that wrist, sir. At your age..."
"I know, I know." Adam shook his head. To Jack: "I hear they caught the guy."
"Yes--a 14-year-old with a laser pointer."
Dr. Rippon said, "They should lock 'im in Spofford and pocket the key."
"We'd like that to happen, Doctor," said Jack.
But Jack was more worried about bullets. He and
the police suspected that Ben's attacker had
really been gunning for Adam.
There was no evidence that Woody Franks had attempted
the murder. Almost certainly the
potential assassin was still at large.
As the machines buzzed and beeped in the background,
Ben sat in his hospital bed, peering
over his bifocals at dozens of manilla folders
engulfing him.
At the sound of his door opening, Ben looked up
in dismay. He expected another nurse coming
in to pester him. His eyes widened in surprise
as he watched Reed Macy walk in.
"Hello, Ms. Macy. What brings you in?" He said, puzzled.
Gingerly, she sat on the side of his bed. Without
saying a word, she clasped his right hand in
hers. "I just wanted to say that I am glad that
you are doing better. And.... I wanted to tell you
that I enjoyed meeting you and well0".
"This sounds like a farewell speech. Are you leaving?".
Nodding, she replied, "Yes. My work here is primarily
done. Some agents will stay behind but I
have been called back."
"Well..." Ben was unable to come up with the appropriate
words. Reed grinned at him,
enjoying Ben's flustering. Ben noticed that Reed's
grin showed a hint of dimples. Unable to
resist, he smiled in return.
"You'll be missed." Ben knew that that was true.
He was proud taht he came up with the right
words. Never one to be short of verbiage, Ben
felt most amused that Reed should make him
feel awkward.
Reed continued grinning. "Maybe I'll be back. Bye,
Ben. Rest and don't over exert yourself."
Ben watched her leave and felt a little sadness.
He hoped he would see her again.
**
Kelson took off his reading glasses and smiled
down the couch at Faith, running his hand up
the back of her shin, her legs draped over his.
“You ready for bed?” he asked, quietly, closing
his file folder. His eyes were warm on her face,
which had lost the stressful pinch of the
evening’s earlier events.
Nearly too pleasantly tired to move, Faith sat
up and put her arms around his neck, tucking her
head under his chin. With a sigh, he held her
close, not wanting to ruin the perfect moment
between them. Kissing her forehead, he tilted
her chin up gently to gaze into her face,
seriously. “Faith, sugar…you’ve got to give Cait
a break…”
Faith groaned, frowning. “Kelly,” she sighed, leaning
forward to kiss him. “I don’t want to fight
about Cait.” Tangling her fingers into the gold
strands of his hair, she moved closer.
“Well,” Kelson mumbled, chuckling. “That’s a first.”
He smoothed a hand over her hair, easing
her onto her back. She laughed softly, his kisses
quieting her, her fingers seeking into the soft
material of his shirt. Kelson sighed, breaking
a tender kiss. “Why don’t you come to bed now?”
he asked, his voice rough.
Faith smiled, touching her fingertip to his bottom
lip. Kelson Dines Ransome was the most
incredibly understanding man she had ever met…but
she knew every man had limitations. He
never questioned their lack of intimacy, he understood
every dark feeling that Faith had
attached to such a beautiful act of human love.
“Kelly,” she whispered, blushing, unsure of how
to continue. “I…”
Kelson smiled, bashfully, kissing her one last
time before sitting up, holding her hand in his. “I’m
going to take a shower,” he said, pressing a kiss
to her hand. She smiled up at him, watching
the loving look on his face.
“All right,” Faith said, sitting up to watch him
go into the bathroom. Hugging her knees to her,
feeling warm all over, she curled up on the couch,
turning up the volume on the TV. A
commercial flashed on the screen and her eyes
wandered to the files and photos spread
across her coffee table. Boredly, she began to
tidy up, stacking the pages of notes and
reports in one pile, organizing the photos into
the folder. Picking one of the photographs, she
tilted her head, gazing at it. Random faces speaking
with more random faces…she sighed,
filing it away. This was one thing she didn’t
miss about police work…the paperwork, the
endless hours of poring over black and white photographs
that eventually all swam together in
the mind. Smiling to herself, she turned over
the last photo, gazing into it. Three men were
standing by a long, black car, obviously either
waiting for or seeing of the person sitting in the
passenger seat. There was a large circle drawn
in white marker around the three men,
accompanied with Kelson’s chicken scratch handwriting.
Shaking her head with a chuckle, she
started to file it away the others, but stopped.
Not quite sure why she had paused, Faith looked
back down at the photograph, her fingers
running over Kelson’s handwriting, wondering what
had caught her eye. Setting her teeth, she
looked hard into the picture, eyes tracing every
feature of the men in the photograph. Glancing
over her shoulder, she peered towards the bathroom,
shutting off the TV. The water was still
running in the shower and she stood up quickly,
hurrying to the desk to dig through the top
drawer. Yanking out a magnifying glass, she went
back to the coffee table and pulled the lamp
on the endtable onto the tabletop, clicking it
on. The light shone brightly onto picture and she
sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t
sure if what she was looking for was
something she wanted to see…
297