Takedown, page 13
Gavin could only think of one thing, and he wasn’t about to talk about it with Chris. He looked at his watch. 8:05. He wondered when the Bronx Zoo closed. He had to find out. As insane the notion that any of what Buck had told him was actually true, he had to call the zoo—now. “I don’t have a clue. I’ve got to make a call.”
“Who?”
Gavin pulled out his cell phone. “Great. It’s off. Can’t use a cell phone in a hospital… have to use the one in the waiting room,” he said and left Chris, who followed him down the hall.
“Does this have something to do with the lobster claw?”
Think, think. “Maybe Buck knows something.”
“The guy who just had the heart attack? You’re going to call him now?”
“I’ll leave him a message to call me as soon as he can,” Gavin lied. The last person he wanted to tell was the Reverend Buchanan. “Did you get anything from the cement company?”
“Not much, but we did talk to the crew at the construction site.”
“What construction site?”
“Where the truck was stolen. All anybody could tell us was that someone, whom no one saw, called the operator to the passenger side of the truck while the foundation was being poured. The next thing they knew, the truck was driving away with the cement still pouring out. There was a cement trail four blocks long. If that doesn’t sound like Krogan… uh, I mean Dengler, I don’t know what does.”
“But you said—”
“He is, he is. Snug—”
“As a bug in a rug. I know. You need a better analogy with this one,” Gavin said, pushing through the waiting room door. His eyes darted around the room until he saw the phone in an alcove across from a few vending machines. Actually, two phones. Both were occupied.
“Looks like we’ve got a minute,” Chris said. “Want a coffee?”
“No,” Gavin said. “I’ll go outside and use the cell.”
Chris nodded and headed for the vending machines. Gavin pressed the on button and hurried through the emergency room’s airlock to the warm outside air while it booted up. The signal was poor, but he managed to get through to information and a moment later was connected to the Bronx Zoo’s general information. After listening to a zoo advertisement about their new jungle world and Asian rain forest exhibits, he was offered five choices that each led to several other choices before he settled for “hours and rates, press one.” The zoo was open daily from 10:00 A.M. to 4:30 P.M. He cursed. Before he shut off the phone, he thought of calling Buck. A ridiculous thought. Why would he want to do that? If the tortoise was dead and Buck knew it, he would have already called. More likely the tortoise is still alive, he said to himself. On second thought, Buck was in a hospital recovering from a heart attack and probably could not be reached easily. Why was he even thinking this? He shut off the cell and went back inside.
“Here,” Chris said, handing Gavin a steaming cup of coffee.
“I told you I didn’t want any.”
“Decaf. Milk, no sugar.”
Gavin sighed and took it.
“Did you reach him?”
“Who?”
Chris stared at him for a moment. “Buck?”
“No.”
“Hmm. So where’re you staying tonight?”
“Staying?”
“Look, I know it’s hard to think now about anything else but Amy, but you don’t have a house anymore. I think you should stay with Pat and me. We’ve got the bedroom in the basement and a bath. You could have your privacy and use the basement door.”
Gavin shook his head the whole time Chris was talking. “I’m staying here.”
Chris looked as if he was about to say something but didn’t.
“Thanks Chris. Maybe later. I’ll let you know.”
Chris nodded. “Fine. Just don’t be bashful. I’ll leave the basement door open. You can come whenever you want. Up to you.”
20
All that is needed for evil to prosper is for good men to do nothing,’” Walter Hess said aloud to himself as he sat on the edge of his small cabin boat, his back to the water, scuba gear on. His pastor had preached those very words again just Sunday, quoting some important person—maybe FDR.
He checked his watch. 11:34 P.M. The Sachacus, America’s fastest ferry, had been docked for over two hours now. If the maintenance tech was on his usual schedule, he would soon take his lunch break at the table near the coffee machine one hundred feet from the ferry in the ticket sales building. If Hess’s calculations were correct, this little breach of company procedure should take just over an hour, and would cost one boat and over two hundred lives. But not just any lives. Gamblers. Diseased lives supporting alcoholic Indians running a casino. Only a government run by Jews would encourage such a thing. His lip curled as he thought of those who were polluting the nation’s blood and heart. The crescent moon kept the cover of darkness secure in the waters just off Sea Cliff Beach. The small chop was calm enough to operate easily in but disruptive enough to camouflage bubbles and the headlamp. His boat was anchored among many other moored boats in front of the Sea Cliff Yacht Club. When a jumbo jet flew over, headed toward La Guardia Airport, he pointed his finger at it and said, “Bang.”
Hess decided to check his equipment list one more time before taking the plunge. Headlamp… already on his head with fresh batteries. Air… not for breathing, but an extra tank of compressed air on his back to supply his pneumatic tools. He had already checked the additional air-line from the tank and tested the easy-connect with both the drill and grinder, the next items on his list. With his free hand, he tapped the tools clipped onto his weight-belt: first the drill, which had a three-quarter-inch steel bit and then the grinder, complete with a four-inch diamond blade and a gauge to set the blade depth at three millimeters. Next: the grappling hook and cable in a small black gym bag. Red crayon in the right sleeve of his wetsuit: check. And finally, his knife, just in case. The tool had proved invaluable the day before.
Hess was doing his best to stay focused and humble, but he couldn’t help but be proud of himself. Pride was the root of all sin, but after all, he was only human. Last night he hadn’t gotten to sleep until one in the morning, instead watching the train wreck on every news channel his boat’s little television would pick up. He had seen the experts hypothesize on everything from al-Qaeda to Salafi to neo-Nazi cults.
And then the news of the Bible Scripture carved into the chest of the dead jock was released, creating new theories and demolishing some old ones. Pictures of the wreck were splashed across the front pages of every newspaper at the newsstand, though he had bought only one, and even then, just to read about the business end of his work. He constantly reminded himself not to get puffed up. After all, the real credit belonged to God—Hess was just a servant, a specialist servant.
It appeared that the experts had no idea who was responsible. The Nassau police department issued a toll-free tip line. He wanted to call it, but not before God gave him the exact words to say. Which He would, of course… when the time was right.
He thought about the senator whose picture emblazoned the newspapers and TV news reports. Hess remembered the politician promising to do everything in his power to see justice done. Justice. People like Sweeney had so little understanding of justice. If he’d open his eyes instead of kissing ethnically inferior babies for votes, he’d see what justice was being done. Sweeney also had other choice words—insults. It was because of people like Senator Sweeney that God needed a soldier like Hess.
With yesterday’s success came a new boldness. Hess remembered how nervous he’d been waiting for the train to come, telling himself over and over to relax, clumsily trying to set the jacks and work the torch with shaking hands. What a difference a day made! He felt like a new person. The papers labeled him as an “expert technician.” He smiled at the thought. If that was all he was, he would still have reason to be anxious. An expert technician? Yes. A specialist? Definitely. Destined? Now therein lay the difference. His anointing from God paved the path before him and gave him true peace… the peace that passed all understanding, as his pastor would say.
A movement caught his eye.
“A man of habit,” he muttered as he watched the maintenance tech step off the Sachacus and walk toward the ticket building, carrying his lunch bag. After the man disappeared through the door, Hess took one final look around, pulled his mask on, bit into the mouthpiece of his regulator, and fell backward into the channel’s cool dark waters. Moments later he was some twenty-five feet below, following the channel’s bottom to the superfast catamaran passenger ferry.
The meaning of the Indian name Sachacus was not lost on Hess as he approached the rear of the vessel. The literal translation was, “He is fierce.” Sachacus had been the chief sachem of the Pequot Indians from 1634 until his death in August 1637. During Sachacus’ brief tenure as chief sachem, he presided over the most powerful tribe in southern New England. Now, almost four hundred years later, thanks to the U.S. government, the tribe was back, and in his estimation, more powerful than ever. But they were about to be served notice to scurry back to their reservation and close the door behind them.
With the powerful waterjet thrusters in view, Hess began his ascent to the catamaran’s one-hundred-forty-eight-foot-long starboard hull. Long and white, it penetrated five feet from the water’s surface. Impressed as he was with the turbines, they were not his mark. He continued on. What he was after was at the other end of the hull. He checked his watch. 11:52. The maintenance man would be gone for another fifty or so minutes.
He passed the stabilizing fin that extended three feet below the hull. In unsteady seas the onboard computer worked the fin to steady the vessel for the passengers’ maximum comfort and safety. The thought made Hess smile as he continued on toward the end of the hull. Once there, he ran his right hand along the front edge until he broke the water’s surface. With his left hand he took the crayon from his right sleeve and dragged a short red line where his elbow hit, approximately nineteen inches from the surface. About six inches above that, he dragged another line and tucked the crayon back into his sleeve for later.
Hess held his breath and quietly surfaced, making sure no one was around before starting up the drill. A careful scan of the dock and the channel satisfied him. As he descended back to his working level, just below the surface, he unclipped the drill from his weight-belt and attached it to the extra black hose line he had so proudly crafted, then briefly pulled the trigger. A roar of bubbles gushed out of the drill’s side and the three-quarter-inch bit spun at three thousand RPMs. So far so good, he told himself. He brought the sharp bit to bear on the lower red line, two inches from the front edge, pulled the trigger, and pushed. The flood of air and whine of the drill was loud underwater, but above the surface there would be no sound but the boil of the bubbles, and that would blend with the choppy waves and not be noticeable to anyone farther away than the dock.
12:14. The drill bit broke though the other side. The hole was about two and a half inches deep through solid aluminum, as expected. He detached the drill from the hose, clipped the tool back to his belt, and took hold of the grinder. He knew the rest of the hull beyond the leading edge was five millimeters thick… a fact he’d gleaned from the ship’s captain during a friendly conversation. The gauge on his grinder had been preset for three millimeters and welded in place to eliminate any slippage under pressure. He quickly attached the air hose to the grinder and set the diamond blade on the higher red line. Staying parallel to the surface, he cut a channel along the hull from the leading edge to a point approximately eight feet back. As with the drill, the underwater squeal was loud and the gush of bubbles scary. He constantly had to remind himself that the sound could not be heard above the water… but inside the boat the metal hull would send a drone throughout the vessel. Even worse than the sound was the visibility. He didn’t have to see while drilling the hole, but cutting a channel in a straight parallel line one foot below the surface with a steady stream of forced bubbles exploding against his mask was a different story.
Kicking his feet hard to keep pressure on the grinder, he completed the desired distance. Upon inspection, his line was a bit wavy, but not enough to cause a problem, he thought. The captain had mentioned also that the ferry would not rise out of the water as its speed increased; hence his cut line would be at the same depth blazing along at forty-seven knots as it was now while docked.
Hess turned his back to the leading edge and started cutting the three-millimeter channel on the other side of the right hull, again pushing against the tool to keep it flat as he cut. He didn’t want any variation in channel depth. Just a few more minutes and… He cursed. The grinder was slowing, visibility improving, the whine not as loud. He was running out of air to run the grinder. He tried slowing down, but it was no use. There wasn’t enough. He pulled the emergency reserve and then the trigger on the grinder. Back in action… but a foot later the grinder slowed to another halt.
He looked at his watch—12:31—and cursed again. He had hoped to be safely on his way back to his own boat by now. He looked at his progress. About four feet. Not enough. He needed the other four feet to be sure. Thinking, thinking. He still needed to attach the grappling hook to the drilled hole. He reattached the dead grinder to his belt and reached for the bag with the hook… then froze, staring at the light beam from his headlamp. He knew where he could get some air.
As fast as he could, he unbuckled his breathing tanks, wiggled them off his shoulders, and switched the regulator hoses. He might not be able to breathe, but he could cut.
Hess exhaled as he ascended to keep his lungs from exploding. He broke surface and looked in the direction of the ticket building. All clear. 12:39. He had about three minutes. He breathed in and out deeply three times, then took a last breath and went back to work. The grinder came to life with a surge of new air. After the first foot his lungs could no longer hold out. When he came up for air, he looked again at the dock and the building. 12:41. The tech should be out any moment. He had completed five feet and wondered if he should quit. If he were spotted, all would be for nothing. He took a deep breath and went back to work.
Hess worked the grinder for the next fifteen seconds before he noticed a familiar sluggishness. His second air tank was running out. He cursed, came up for another breath, and pulled the reserve. 12:43.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself, staring at the closed door. He could feel the anxiety swirling around his chest and abdomen. He was about to look at his watch again but instead took a breath and went under. One more foot was all he needed. Six and a half feet should be enough. He started in again but stopped after six inches, remembering something else he wanted to do back at the leading edge. He broke surface slowly, watching the door as he rose. While easing his way to the front, he worked off the wing nut holding the grinder’s guide. Pulling off the guide, he put the grinder back in the three-millimeter channel at the tip of the edge and pulled the trigger. The diamond blade sunk in easily.
The lunchroom door began to open. Hess instantly took his finger off the trigger.
The maintenance tech took a few steps onto the dock, then stopped. Hess allowed himself to sink, then swam under the hull and resurfaced on the other side, out of sight. He hadn’t cut as much as he wanted to, but his time was up. He clipped the grinder back to his belt and found the bag with the grappling hook. He peeked around the hull and saw the tech enjoying a cigarette. Great, he thought sarcastically. He slowly eased out the hook, which had a cable and U-bolt attached. He slid the U-bolt through the hole he’d drilled and tightened it up, all the while watching the tech.
With the grappling hook hanging from his drilled hole on a two-foot cable, Hess took his red crayon, wrote on the hull’s bottom, then started toward his own boat, swimming on his back so he could watch the tech safely onto the Sachacus.
1:54. Hess started his engine and left the mooring area at five miles per hour. Once past the no-wake buoy, he eased the throttle forward until he was cruising out of the harbor and into Long Island Sound. Following the exact path with his GPS that he had traced on a recent ride on the Sachacus, he veered east. One more chore to tend to before calling it a night.
21
The sudden movement of Amy’s fingers jolted Gavin from his light sleep. He had spent the night in a chair by her side, holding her hand, occasionally using the edge of her hospital bed as his pillow.
“Gavin?” she whispered.
“I’m right here, baby,” he said, rising to his feet.
Her eyes opened slightly in his direction, then her gaze began to take in her surroundings—the intravenous tubes, the half-drawn pink curtain, the beeping heart monitor. “What happened?” She cleared her throat and winced slightly.
Gavin had prepared himself for this very question. He wanted to tell her everything he knew. Who else could assure him he wasn’t going insane? Who else could help him figure out what to do next? “There was an accident, baby. You ruptured your spleen … they had to remove it. It’s a useless organ anyway. You’ll be fine. You just need to rest up for a bit.”
“Spleen?” she said, her eyes opening wider. “Where’s my baby?” She pulled her hand away from Gavin’s and grabbed for her abdomen.
Gavin drew her hand back. “Hey, hey, calm down. The baby’s going to be okay. The doctor will be in later to tell you she’ll be fine as long as you relax and keep mostly horizontal. At first they were afraid the placenta had detached, but now they say everything’s normal.”
Amy paused again. “She?”
Gavin smiled and nodded. He had suspected that Amy was hoping for a girl, and this bit of news was just what he needed to distract her from the nightmare they were in. “Yeah, the doctor thought I knew and just blurted it out to me last night.” The tear forming in the corner of Amy’s eye told Gavin his suspicions were correct. He squeezed her hand.
