Driven
Authors: W. G. Griffiths
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblace to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
© 2002 by W. G. Griffiths.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may
quote brief passages in a review.
WARNER BOOKS
Hachette Book Group
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Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.
First eBook Edition: May 2002
ISBN: 978-0-446-55909-6
Contents
“YOU’RE DEALING WITH DEVILS,” EXPLAINED BUCK. “THEY’RE IMMORTAL. YOU CAN’T KILL THEM. THEY CAN’T DIE.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Devils as in… demons?” Amy said.
“Yes, demons.”
“Real demons?” Gavin said incredulously. “Your terrorists are demons? As in evil spirits, horns, the devil?” He brought his
index fingers to his head and mocked a set of horns.
“Gavin,” Amy said, pulling down his arms.
“It’s all right, my dear,” Buck said. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me. But you wanted the truth.”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “I have a much easier time believing truth that I can see.”
“In my business, Detective, you often have to believe in order to see.”
“We’re in different businesses,” Gavin said.
“You and I are not as different as you might think, Detective.”
“Guaranteed to give you goose bumps. W. G. Griffiths enters the world of King, Rice, and Straub.”
—Nelson DeMille
For Bill and Dorothy Griffiths
First, I am very grateful to Markus Wilhelm, a father, a brother, my good friend.
I am also grateful to Rolf Zettersten, my publisher at Warner Books, for his generosity, confidence, and desire to publish
this book, and to my editor, Leslie Peterson, for her suggestions and ability to do everything from gracefully rewrite rough
lines to manage the production and schedule of the work.
I thank Roger Cooper for his extraordinarily high level of energy and enthusiasm through thick and thin and his personal oversight
of the book club project, and Michelle Rapkin, who is like a sister to me with her constant encouragement, wisdom, and advice.
Thanks also to Joan Sanger, who under extreme circumstances edited the first edition. I am also grateful to Barbara Greenman
and her staff, who must work with microscopes, maps, and oil cans to keep the wheels turning.
I am indebted to my hard-working friends, Deputy Chief Gary Ruff, Captain Carl Sandel, and Detective Chris Grella (who begged
me not to kill his character), and Pastor David Harwood, for their many unselfish hours and technical advice. Errors or inaccuracies
are mine, not theirs.
I am very appreciative to Arlene Friedman for her valuable time and professional evaluations.
A very warm thanks to my first readers—Donny and Melissa Renaldo, Andrew Syrotick, Angelo Otto, Craig and Maryann Griffiths,
Bill McCarty, Barry and Beth Mevorach, Shira and Jonathan Harwood, Kevin Cocchiola, Bill and Dorothy Griffiths, Phil Schlesinger,
and Scott and Laurie Nicolich—for early feedback after suffering through some truly rough drafts.
Finally, my deepest gratitude goes to my beautiful wife, Cindy, who is always there to ask me for the next page, make fun
of my spelling, and tell me, “You can’t write
that
,” and to my children, Stephen, Robyn, Luke, Willy, Peter, and Summer, for their love.
—W. G. Griffiths,
WGGriffiths.com
Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary,
the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about,
seeking whom he may devour.
1
PETER
5:8
K
rogan saw the police lights reflecting hazily in the rearview mirror and was about to crush the gas pedal of the oversized,
overpowered 4×4 when he considered it might be more fun to pull over. The proud owner of the monster truck sat in the passenger
seat, sucking hard on the last of a fatty joint held by a small lobster-claw roach clip. Powerful speakers pounded bass notes
through their flesh. The air conditioning, on full max, did nothing against the thick cloud of pot smoke that filled the cab.
The truck slid to a stop on the grass off the parkway’s shoulder. A half-drained pint of gold tequila spilled out of the console.
Krogan snatched the bottle off the floor with a gorilla-sized hand and drank the few remaining ounces. He then took another
turn on the lobster claw as he revved the engine to the beat of the hard music. The metallic clack on his window went almost
unheard.
“Oh, yeah. The cop,” Krogan said, his voice deep and raspy. Never one for conversation, he lowered the window and heaved the
empty bottle of tequila through the billowing smoke, glancing left just long enough to confirm the result: the puny cop was
out cold on his back, blood oozing from a new and deep gash over his left eye.
Krogan hit the gas pedal and then the brake and shifted into reverse. He backed the rear tires to within inches of the cop’s
face and, laughing, shifted into first and punched the gas again, covering his fallen prey with a sticky gush of wet grass
and mud.
“It’s time,” he said, flicking a nontwist beer-bottle cap off with his thumb.
The vehicle’s owner nodded, staring blearily through slitted, bloodshot eyes.
“Ever…” Krogan guzzled and belched. “… kill a whale… on a Sunday?”
The passenger grinned. “It’s been a while—maybe two hundred years. Don’t know about Sunday.”
“With a truck?”
“Never tried with a truck.”
“Then it’s the aquarium.”
Laughter. “Yeah. Fishing at the aquarium.”
With a roar, the truck was on its way.
B
ubblegum. Detective Gavin Pierce didn’t have to look down to know he’d just stepped on a chewed-and-spewed glob of fresh,
sun-cooked bubblegum. Compliments of Coney Island.
On any other day of the week, such an irritant would normally result in a few choice words. But this was Sunday, a day steeped
in tradition. Gavin set Sundays apart to be with the most important person he knew: his mother’s father, Antonio Palermo.
Grampa. Every Sunday morning, Gavin traveled back to his old neighborhood to pick up Grampa for church. Today was extra special.
Today
was Grampa’s birthday. The old man was eighty-two. Gavin could hardly believe it.
Gavin stood watchfully behind Grampa as a young girl wearing a green-and-yellow concession hat handed the old immigrant two
Coney Island hot dogs. Grampa nodded a thank you and received a warm smile in return. He had the knack for that—for eliciting
smiles from complete strangers. Smiles just like hers had followed Grampa for as long as Gavin could remember. Upon occasion,
Grampa could even crack Gavin’s stone demeanor. Only Grampa.
Cradling the hot dogs with both hands, Grampa turned where he stood and paused before plotting out his way to the condiments
counter just ten feet away. Gavin followed, allowing Grampa to fulfill the customary act of decorating the food. Gavin had
switched from ketchup to mustard on his franks when he was a teen, but Grampa only remembered when Gavin had put ketchup on
everything. Gavin was thirty-six, but today he would eat his hot dog with ketchup as he and Grampa took a walk down memory
lane.
“You’d be having a dog for lunch even if I wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?” Gavin said as he received his. It looked and smelled
enticing enough and for the sake of recapturing precious moments long past he would try to block out thoughts of the inevitable
heartburn the deceptive little creature would surely bring. An antacid stand around here would be a gold mine, he thought
as he watched someone pave a couple of hamburgers with mustard and onions. He briefly relocated himself protectively into
the path of two laughing kids running toward them, then adjusted his position again when the threat to his fragile grandfather
had passed.
Grampa had paused to answer Gavin’s question, and Gavin reflexively leaned closer to hear over the popping balloons, game
sirens, carnival music, and mechanical clatter of rides.
“I like,” the old man replied decisively, his words punctuated with the lilting accent of his Italian homeland. He took a
dangerously
large bite of his hot dog, drenched in mustard and buried in sauerkraut and relish.
Gavin looked at his own ketchup-flooded food and sighed imperceptibly before biting. Grampa was waiting for the big
mmmmmmm
that always followed. Gavin obliged him. “They taste good, Grampa, but they’re no good for you.”
Grampa laughed. “What do you eat that is so good for you?”
Gavin thought. “Fish. Fish is good for you.”
“What? I eat plenty of the fish,” Grampa said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Baccala? That dried-up, salty leather? It’s terrible for you.”
Grampa shook his finger. “Only on holidays.”
“Then what? Anchovies on your pizza?”
“Scungili,” Grampa said with closed eyes and a smile, as if his hot dog had taken on a new flavor.
“Scungili’s not fish. It’s a snail. A big snail. A scavenger. It eats junk. It’s a living garbage can.”
“Like me,” Grampa said, proudly tapping his chest, then winking at Gavin.
Gavin rolled his eyes and looked away, not wanting to encourage him. The old man did everything wrong. He never exercised,
ate three eggs with sausage every morning and a liverwurst sandwich every night before bed, and drank coffee and wine like
water. At least he’d given up those smelly, crooked cigars.
“Here, you take another ride?” Grampa said, motioning toward a huge disk that held its occupants upright with centrifugal
force as it rose from horizontal to vertical.
Gavin shook his head. “If I go on another ride I’ll throw up. Especially that one.”
The rides at Coney Island hadn’t changed much since Gavin’s childhood. The giant Ferris wheel was still there, as was the
Cyclone, an all-wooden roller coaster that had once been the biggest
and fastest of its kind. Now its questionable longevity made it scarier than when it had towered like the Swiss Alps in his
little-boy eyes.
As they slowly walked past the Cyclone the ground vibrated and screams pierced the air, then were whipped away in a hairpin
curve. Gavin’s childhood ability to be tossed about in any direction and at any speed seemed to be long gone. Even the thought
of another ride was making him queasy.
“I think it’s time to go to the aquarium,” he said.
“Huh?” Grampa said, cupping his ear.
“I said, let’s go see the dolphins,” Gavin yelled as the coaster rattled past again.
The New York Aquarium was in Coney Island, right next to the amusement park, and stopping by had always been tradition. The
walruses and whales and other water creatures foreign to Gavin’s everyday life had always intrigued him. Especially the dolphins,
and there was a dolphin and sea lion show at four
P.M.
, just an hour away. Gavin couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a dolphin show with Grampa, but he did remember Grampa’s
astonished expression every time the dolphins had danced around on the water’s surface with their tails. Gavin wanted to see
that expression on Grampa’s face again.
The walk to the aquarium was short in distance but long in time. Gavin didn’t care. He had all day and was in no hurry for
it to end, choosing instead to enjoy their stroll down the huge boardwalk that separated the business world from the beach
world. It extended as far as he could see. The old decking had recently been replaced with new mahogany. After having had
his own deck built with a much cheaper knotty cedar, Gavin wondered what it must have cost to redo the boardwalk.
Gavin was grateful for the overcast sky that kept the crowds away. There was, however, a small gathering around a middle-aged
man handling a giant python. The man had a female assistant selling Polaroid pictures of anyone who would allow the man to
arrange the snake on their shoulders.
“Grampa, are you afraid of snakes?” Gavin asked as they drew closer. The old man raised an eyebrow.
The circle of spectators opened to allow Gavin and Grampa in. Grampa’s eyes widened; he said nothing but was obviously taken
aback at the sight of the huge reptile, at least eight inches in diameter, draped over its master’s shoulders. It didn’t seem
to mind the small top hat strapped to its brick-sized head.
The python’s owner eyed Gavin. “What do you say, young man? Would you like to have a picture of Sinbad giving you a hug?”
“I had something a little different in mind,” Gavin said.
By the time Gavin and Grampa continued on their way to the aquarium, they were each staring at their own Polaroid. Gavin shook
his head, wondering if there was anything Grampa wouldn’t do if Gavin asked. The old man always argued a bit, but in the end
he was a great sport. Gavin hoped there was a way to get Polaroids enlarged. If so, he would frame the picture of him and
Grampa, arms over shoulders with the giant serpent draped comfortably across them.
Gavin carefully examined the photo. The evolution of Grampa-Gavin photos had reached the late stages. Gavin’s eyes were no
longer belt height and Grampa’s hand no longer reached down to rest on his shoulders. In fact, Gavin’s hand was now resting
low on Grampa’s shoulder. His somber expression was in stark contrast to his grandfather’s wide smile. People had always told
Gavin he reminded them of Russell Crowe. He would take the comparison as a compliment, but couldn’t see the resemblance.
With fifteen minutes to spare before the dolphin show, Gavin and Grampa walked over to the aquatheater holding tanks. The
holding tanks were a complex of three adjoining tanks that flowed
into each other. One of the tanks was where the dolphin show would take place, but the two others were used to house whatever
other sea creatures the show featured. Before and after the show people gathered in front of several large, thick viewing
windows, amazed at the size and beauty of some of the world’s most exotic mammals. The dolphins in turn would swim over and
stare at the people as if mutually interested in the strange creatures that waved and squished their faces against the glass.
“The window at the end isn’t so crowded,” Gavin said, pointing to the glass closest to the parking lot. As they walked over
Gavin glanced through the nearby chain-link fence to see a traffic cop directing cars in and out of the parking lot entrance
about one hundred yards away. A cop himself, he was glad not to be directing traffic in Brooklyn.
As Grampa walked up to the glass a dolphin greeted him. “They always are smiling, Gavin. Just like you used to when you were
a boy. My boy.” He patted his grandson.
“That’s because you always gave me something to smile about,” Gavin said, putting his arm around the old man’s shoulders.
“Nah,” Grampa said, shaking his head slowly. “It wasn’t me. It was you. You were always playing games and make believe that
you were everything under the sun: cowboys and Indians, Superman and Batman. Always playing the good guys and bad guys.”
“I’m still playing good guys and bad guys.”
Grampa turned from his long-nosed admirer and looked at Gavin. “Except now you’re not playing anymore. Your young dreams have
come true.”
Gavin hesitated before deciding not to correct the old man. He didn’t want to soil their time with the realities of his world
and how very little it resembled the dreams of his youth. If Grampa believed he was happy and fulfilled, Gavin would leave
it that way. He would
steer the conversation away from himself. “And your dreams, Grampa—have your dreams come true?”
“My dreams?” Grampa laughed, pointing at himself. “When you’re young it’s all dreams; when you’re old it’s all memories.”
Before Gavin could respond to Grampa’s comment, a loudspeaker announced the dolphin show would begin in five minutes.
“Let’s go, Grampa. The show’s about to start,” Gavin said, just as he had when he was twelve.
“I’ll see you later, Smiley,” Grampa said to the dolphin.
By the time they rounded the holding tanks they found all of the seats in the first few rows had been taken, mostly by what
appeared to be a group on a field trip. No problem. Although Grampa’s eyes weren’t what they used to be, they were still good
enough to enjoy the show from one of the upper rows of seating that rose on steel girders above the holding tanks. And from
that distance Grampa probably wouldn’t get splashed by the dolphins, a prank the playful mammals seemed to enjoy as much as
the kids.
Gavin slowly led the way to an upper row, allowed Grampa to enter a row off to the left, then followed.
He followed the old man to the end of the row, where they sat. There really were no bad seats and these gave a good overall
view. The sun had finally broken through the clouds and the solid, blue security wall next to them afforded some shade; the
rest of the spectators would be fishing for their sunglasses. The wall also gave them privacy from the parking lot and disguised
the fact that they were about thirty feet above the ground from where they had viewed the dolphins before the show.
When most of the seats were filled, a petite blonde woman wearing the staff uniform of dark-blue shorts and a light-blue shirt
introduced herself to the crowd as Bonnie. Wearing a wireless headset microphone, she spoke briefly of the New York Aquarium’s
history. As she spoke, Gavin could see the dark figures of the dolphins
and sea lions entering into the main pool. One of the dolphins shot out of the water and did a flip, to the immediate applause
of the crowd.
“Oh! That’s Darla,” Bonnie said matter-of-factly. “As you can tell, she’s very shy.”
Gavin glanced at Grampa. When Gavin was a boy he had always been acutely aware of Grampa’s watchful gaze—the clinical eye
that determined whether or not Gavin was having fun. Now it was Gavin’s turn. He was the one interested in Grampa’s enjoyment.
Fortunately, Grampa was obviously enjoying himself. He was watching the spirited dolphin with a boyishly wide smile and bright
eyes, just as Gavin hoped he would. Just as Gavin had done some twenty-odd years earlier.
Suddenly Gavin’s attention was caught by a voice yelling in the distance and the sound of a car skidding across pavement,
followed by the loud roar of an engine with little or no muffler.
Bonnie’s eyes shifted in the direction of the obnoxious roar, but she continued her well-rehearsed repertoire without hesitation.
Her smile remained as she kicked a beach ball into the water for the dolphins.
But the engine noise was getting louder. Closer. Bonnie’s voice over the loudspeakers could no longer be clearly heard. Out-matched
by the competition, she stopped and stared disdainfully in the direction of the disturbance. People turned their heads toward
the parking lot, but couldn’t see beyond the aquatheater walls. They could only wait for someone else to take care of the
problem.
Gavin expected to hear the engine stop and wheels lock up— perhaps some skidding—but no. There was no braking, just pure engine.
Closer. Was something wrong with the car’s throttle? Was it stuck? Was something wrong with the driver?
Suddenly there came a crash. The entire crowd startled in their seats. At first Gavin thought the vehicle had hit a parked
car, but
something sounded wrong—the engine was still roaring and there was an added clinking, scraping, grinding.
The fence? Apparently the vehicle had gone through the chain-link and was dragging it along. Gavin pictured sparks igniting
off the pavement. He then heard and felt what he thought to be the fence’s service gates ricocheting off the outer walls.
Still no braking. Full power ahead.
The impact felt like an explosion and jolted the entire seating area. Screams and gasps erupted from the spectators as the
entire structure moved like one of the amusement park’s rides. Before Gavin knew what was happening, the large safety wall
next to them broke apart and fell away as if unhinged, revealing the parking lot below. In the next instant, the upper seating
section they were in gave way, fell off on an angle, then caught itself briefly before slowly continuing its downward trajectory.