Takedown, page 19
One of the wrestlers, Fire, threw Murdock backward in Krogan’s direction. Krogan stuck out his foot and tripped the corpulent wrestler. There was a thud and a groan, but Krogan had already turned to face Fire, who was looking very confused.
It was time for their routine to come to an end.
“Your pain will introduce me,” Krogan said in a deep whisper. “All will bow down.”
Fire looked angry. “What’s up with this? You don’t just come in here and mess with us. I don’t care who you are.”
“You will.”
Fire paused, then laughed. “Hey, fine, you want to go with me… here… now… no rules? We can do that. All that means is I get the million before someone else does.”
Krogan didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know that Mace Murdock was on his feet and about to charge. Fire had his hands up, moving cautiously forward. He lunged, leading with a right fist aimed at Krogan’s head. Cat quick, Krogan caught Fire’s fist with his left hand and in one motion turned the fighter’s palm inward and pressed hard against the back of Fire’s hand with his thumb, bending the wrist acutely so it appeared as though Fire was pointing his fingers at his own face. The redheaded wrestler’s scream silenced the crowd as he dropped to his knees, Krogan controlling his position effortlessly with one hand.
Mace Murdock’s right fist was about to crush Krogan’s right ear when he found that Krogan had likewise caught his punch with his free hand.
“Aggghhhhh,” Murdock shrieked in the highest pitch to leave his mouth since his circumcision. In an instant he was on his knees alongside Fire, the two wrestlers agonized, unable to lift their heads.
Krogan jerked his chin toward the shocked audience. “All will bow,” he roared. “All will bow down to Krogan. Shadahd!” He then applied thumb pressure on the back of the wrestlers’ hands until he heard two snaps. The wrestlers screamed and rolled on the mat. Krogan lifted his arms in the air. A moment later, the four corner posts of the ring ignited like giant Roman candles, shooting colorful sparks high into the air, a dazzling effect the WWX had originally planned on for Krogan’s introduction. The audience exploded in cheers and boos, just as the producers had hoped they would.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The crazed announcer excitedly proclaimed the contest for a million dollars that had been megahyped through television, radio, newspapers, posters, and flying banners along the South Shore beaches. A giant digital clock was lowered from the ceiling above the ring to display the three-minute countdown.
Krogan stood motionless in the center of the ring staring out at the audience. He knew many of his comrades were looking on. Outside the boundaries of the ring a line of contestants had formed. The WWX had arranged things so that street contestants would split time with their own wrestlers in alternating bouts. Anyone willing to sign an injury waiver was eligible to try the three minutes for one million. Since Krogan had entered the ring early with Fire and Murdock, the organizers decided the next competition would be against a walk-on.
Two WWX girls escorted the first challenger, a hooded man in a black Ninja suit, up a steel staircase to the ropes, then held them open for him to climb through. The announcer introduced the man as Johnny “The Phantom” Bromante. Some of the crowd began chanting, “Krogan, Krogan, Krogan.”
At the sound of the bell, The Phantom quickly ran to a corner and climbed up until he was standing on the top rope, his feet wide apart. “Before you beat me you first have to catch me, Big Man.”
Krogan looked up at the man and was about to move toward him when his attention was distracted by a flying object that broke through the outer darkness of the audience into the strong show lights above the ring. A Frisbee! The toy flew a few feet over his head, then landed behind him near the ropes. He was about to turn back to his opponent when he noticed an image taped to the Frisbee with some words written under it.
“Krogan. Krogan, Krogan.”
The chants became louder and louder, drawing his attention back again to the man on the ropes. Suddenly Krogan was hit in the chest by another Frisbee, which fell at his feet, twirled on end, and finally came to rest faceup. His eyes widened as he clearly saw the picture of a Galapagos Island tortoise and “Shadahd This!” written underneath. His gaze snapped up, looking in the direction the Frisbee had come from. How dare he! How dare he! Who is this human that he should taunt? Mock! Threaten!
“Two minutes remaining,” called the announcer.
Krogan angrily picked up the Frisbee and threw it back into the darkness and yelled, “Down, Pierce! I’m going to take you down— Uuuhhhh.”
Johnny “The Phantom” Bromante had taken advantage of Krogan’s lack of focus and had jumped off the ropes and onto his shoulders. The surprise lunge took Krogan off his feet and landed him hard, face first, onto the mat. The Phantom, with his arm around Krogan’s neck, pulled with all his might.
Krogan, his neck stretching back, saw Tanya at ringside. She was frowning, the first Frisbee in her hand. He could think of nothing he wanted more in all the world than to have Pierce in his hands. He hadn’t felt this kind of humiliation and rage since, since… since he’d first found himself in the tortoise over two years ago. And that was also Pierce’s fault.
Tanya’s face was becoming hazy. His host wasn’t breathing and hadn’t been for some time, with The Phantom’s tightening choke-hold. He was losing consciousness. He quickly thought about death and a new host, but then just as quickly thought of the further humiliation of having been defeated by Pierce and the man on his back in the black Ninja pajamas in front of both the earthly and spiritual arenas watching him. Never!
“Thirty seconds,” called the announcer.
Krogan rose to his feet with The Phantom pulling tightly on his neck. He grabbed the man’s arm with both hands, pulled it away from his neck, then threw the shocked challenger over his shoulder and hard to the mat. The Phantom immediately tried to scramble away on his hands and knees, but Krogan grabbed his ankle, then swung him around once before throwing him out of the ring, where he crashed onto the television commentators’ table some twenty feet away with five seconds left on the clock.
Krogan paced the mat, looking in the direction he thought Pierce might be as medics rushed to Johnny “The Phantom” Bromante’s unconscious body.
30
Gavin flashed his badge, and the two coliseum security guards with flashlights looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and walked away.
“You throw any more of those Frisbees of yours and I’ll be the one flashing the badge. And it will be at you while I’m reading you your rights.”
“Relax, Chris. I got my point across.”
“Apparently, though I’m not exactly sure what that point was, except to infuriate the Krogan clone and almost get that Phantom Johnny guy killed.”
“I needed to prove to myself that Jackhammer Hoban is harboring the same Krogan entity that Karl Dengler was harboring two and a half years ago and to let him know that I know and that his days are numbered… again.”
Chris paused. “You can’t be serious. This is a joke, right? Entity? You mean you think there was some kind of spirit inside Dengler, and it left him and is now in this guy?” Chris motioned toward the ring.
“You heard me right.”
“This is what Buck told you?”
Gavin was about to answer but then winced along with Chris at what Krogan had just done to another wrestler. The fans’ response was passionate, albeit mixed. A fight broke out just three rows away. Chris started to get up, but the security guards were on it immediately.
Chris settled back down in his seat, keeping an eye on the source of the disturbance. “Can we leave now?” he said. “You did what you came for… unless you plan on getting in line to fight him while you’re at it. You can use a million bucks right about now.”
“It’s not the money I want. It’s him.”
“I was only kidding. Forgive me for forgetting who I was with. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Wait,” Gavin said, rearranging himself in his seat. “Remember Karianne Stordal?”
“The airline stewardess who was a passenger in the car when the real Krogan crashed into and killed John Garrity and put me in the hospital? Of course I remember. How could I ever forget?”
“Okay, remember when we hypnotized her because she couldn’t remember the driver?”
“Yeah, and then she remembered his name was Krogan.”
“Right. And what happened when she was asked to recall the first time she met Krogan?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “She started speaking Hebrew. Something tells me we’re getting back to the entity thing.”
“Ancient Hebrew.”
“Okay, ancient Hebrew. Dr. Katz said she was probably experiencing a past-life event.”
“And you believe that?”
“My mother does. And so does Pat. They say that kind of stuff happens all the time. Hey, half the world believes in reincarnation. Tell you what: if it’s true, I wouldn’t want to know what you’re coming back as. Probably a bulldog. Here, Gavin! Here, boy!”
“Are you finished?”
“Sorry.”
Heavy-metal music blared with more fireworks as the next challenger was introduced. All the fighters were beginning to look the same to Gavin, as were all the results of fighting Krogan. The cloud of smoke drifted from the ring area, out over the seats, and hung there like a mist. After the music stopped and the bout started, Gavin focused back on his conversation with his partner.
“So what if it wasn’t reincarnation, Chris? I mean, we can’t remember conversations we had last week, or even yesterday, most of the time. How can someone remember what someone else said to them in another lifetime… many other lifetimes… thousands and thousands of years ago? Human memories can’t do that.”
“I don’t know, Gav. Maybe the soul remembers better than the brain.”
“You’re grabbing for straws. The past lives of Krogan and Kari-anne were meeting constantly through the centuries, and she remembered every one of them in perfect detail. How does reincarnation explain that?”
“If I remember correctly, Dr. Katz was pretty excited about them meeting in other lives. He said it was ‘unprecedented.’”
“Yeah. You should talk to Katz now. I’m sure he’s singing a different tune after Karianne kicked the stuffing out of him.”
“Karianne did what? Why? How?”
“With her past life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You heard me. Karianne’s past life—”
“The one that was speaking ancient Hebrew?” Chris said sarcastically.
“That one, yes. And the one that spoke French, Hun, Mongolian, Japanese, Norse, Roman, and who knows how many other languages.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’ve completely lost your mind.”
“Chris, what I’m trying to tell you is that it wasn’t reincarnation, at least not human reincarnation. The past lives existed, yes. But they weren’t Karianne’s.”
“So what’s your answer? And I hope you didn’t dance me around this crap without having an answer of your own.”
“You bet I do.”
“So what is it already? Say it!”
Gavin leaned close. “Demons,” he said quietly, as if to soften the impact of his words. “All kinds of demons. Demons that like drunks. Fear demons, lazy demons, weak demons. And,” Gavin went on, turning his gaze in the direction of the lighted ring, “very, very strong demons that want to get together and party with other demons and celebrate the end of the party with a wild crash for no better reason than because they hate God’s creation and want to see it taken down piece by piece. And some carry a grudge from one life to the next, because to them… it’s all one lifetime. Theirs.”
Chris was silent. The kind of silent that made Gavin think his partner was cautiously afraid he actually had lost his mind. Together they had arrested countless EDPs whose alibis sounded frighteningly similar to Gavin’s explanation.
“Don’t do this to me, Chris,” Gavin said angrily.
“Do what?”
“Act like I need to be handled carefully, like a cracked egg filled with nitro.”
“Is that how you see yourself?”
“I swear, Chris, if you don’t start arguing with me soon, I do to you what Krogan did to Johnny ‘The Phantom’ Bromante.”
Chris frowned. “This is no joke. The demons, I mean. You really believe this?”
“You missed a lot while you were in the hospital, Chris.”
“Well, how come you didn’t fill me in?”
Gavin sighed, then went for it. “Because the tortoise wasn’t supposed to die, and Krogan wasn’t supposed to get free and come after us.”
Chris looked at him blankly. “You mean the tortoise on the Frisbee?”
“No. That was just a picture. I wanted to see what kind of response I would get. Anyone else wouldn’t have cared, but as you noticed…”
“Maybe you’d better start at the beginning.”
“Gladly, but not here. I need something to eat,” Gavin said, his body reminding him the only thing he’d eaten all day was a salted pretzel from the zoo and a lone chocolate-chip cookie he’d found at the coffee machine back at Homicide.
“I’m for that. My treat. I’ll call Pat and tell her we’re on our way.”
“Sounds good, but I need to stop at my house first to try to find some clothes.”
“You can wear mine,” Chris said with a smile, getting up to leave.
“Yeah, right,” Gavin said as he followed, but then stopped in the aisle and turned for a last look at Krogan. The monster had just started another match. Could anyone in the ring with him possibly know what he or she was up against? Gavin thought again about Amy in the hospital with the baby clinging to life inside her. He thought about the demolished house. He thought about the dead decorator and cement truck driver. Buck’s advice to take Krogan on himself seemed ridiculous in light of what was happening in the ring before him. Even if he killed the man, the demon would be back. He needed help. What could he possibly do? Nothing. Almost nothing. He opened the plastic bag he’d brought with him. He still had another two Frisbees. He threw both of them. One went wide, but the other landed in the ring. Krogan picked it up and yelled something, but without a microphone it was impossible to hear him over the crowd.
“I’ll be back,” Gavin said, quietly, weakly.
31
Walter Hess put down his fork, leaned over the small tabletop, stretched and adjusted the rabbit-ear antennas on his boat’s little television until the picture cleared. For some reason channel seven had the best news and worst reception. For the second day in a row he found himself the center of attention on every major network news channel. Such recognition. The time would come when he would speak up and give God the credit He was due. In the meantime, he should be humble. He looked around the cabin. Small cabin, small boat, old but reliable engine, hand tools, small bunk, one blanket, a pillow that doubled as a life preserver, an old television, and modest food. Humility was key to the success he was having. His simplicity had made him invisible to the world that was hunting him. He considered how Jesus had walked through angry crowds without being touched and then disappeared. God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble, he thought. Why else would they have the whole world talking about him and looking for him without a clue as to who he was, where he was, or what he would do next?
“Thank you, Jesus,” he said, then plopped back into his seat, picked up a slice of white bread, and gathered another forkful of baked beans and freshly caught flounder. A few moments later the plate was clean and he considered himself satisfied physically, mentally, and, more important, spiritually. He looked at his watch. Hightide in about two hours. It would be dark. Good. He needed to get some fresh supplies and could only do it when the tide was high and the sky was dark enough for him to go unnoticed.
Hess was about to get up when Senator Bruce Sweeney’s face filled the screen. As the camera panned back, he could see the senator was on a rescue boat with an orange life preserver donned over a white button-down shirt. His hair was neatly combed, and several other official-type personnel surrounded him. The capsized Sachacus was in the background. A channel seven microphone was just visible. Hess reached over the table to turn the volume up, wondering if the rescue boat was even in the water.
“… and as I said yesterday at a similar disaster, the focus needs to be on tighter security. If it takes getting people out from behind their comfortable little desks in their comfortable little offices to roll up their sleeves and help the cause, then that’s what we need to do. If I can do it… we all can do it. We all need to join in and get dirty.”
“Then your rally against terror is still scheduled for the Fourth?”
Sweeney nodded. “Whether it’s the Fourth of July or the fourth of March, the message to stay focused and attack the problems— terror being one of them—is what I’m giving my life to. The date doesn’t matter, but if we expect to keep our freedom and our ability to celebrate it freely, then we need to get to work and follow a leadership that is willing to work.”
Hess turned down the volume and went over to his bunk. He lifted the thin mattress, opened the storage hatch under it, and pulled out an aluminum gun case. He unlatched the case and opened it. The gun inside was a sharp contrast to the rest of the cabin’s modest decor. A 50 BMG Barrett rifle. Model 99. Single shot. He would have preferred a semiautomatic but couldn’t afford it. The single shot alone had cost him over three grand.
He feathered his fingers along the cold, olive-green metal stock in proud admiration. Just over fifty inches in overall length. His gaze moved to the fifty-caliber rounds in their clear plastic case. Seven-hundred-fifty-grain bullets. Seven times the size of his hunting rifle’s ammo.
Hess carefully took the premier sniper rifle out of its case, shouldered it, and pointed it toward the TV. At twenty-five pounds, the rifle was better than three and a half times the weight of his hunting rifle. He flipped up the protective lids on the Leupold 10X scope and peered in, hoping to put Sweeney in the crosshairs. Too close… way too close for a rifle capable of exploding the pompous senator’s head from a mile away.
