Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (49 page)

He held up his hand, looked around the room and spotted a radio.
 
"Turn it on."

"What station?"

"880."

She flipped it to the local CBS news affiliate and turned up the volume. They were recapping the day.
 
Stocks had closed lower.
 
The President was traveling to China.
 
The Middle East was in turmoil again.
 
Marty half listened to the radio and to the tension heightening on the other end of the phone.
 
The newscaster switched to the weather.
 
Clear skies.
 
Heat on the rise.
 
Storms by Tuesday.

And then, on the phone, he heard the biggest explosion yet.
 
He took a step back at the sheer force of it and shouted Hines' name.
 
Roberta reached out to put a hand on his arm, but the moment she touched him, she jerked her hand away as if she'd been scalded.

The cell phone went dead.
 
Marty lowered it in his hand and was about to tell them what he heard when Roberta, her hands to her mouth, said, "Those poor people."

Maggie was standing just inside the swinging door.
 
"What people?" she said.
 
Neither answered.
 
"What's happening?"
 

The news broke.

Each turned to the radio.
 

Terrorists had attacked New York City.
 
Bombs had leveled a portion of 75th and Fifth.
 
Buildings were in the street.
 
The majority of the damage extended from East 73rd to East 76th.
 
Parts of East 77th Street also were affected.
 
Hundreds were feared dead.
 
Marty immediately dialed Jennifer's number, but all he got was a rapid busy signal, which told him the very last thing he wanted to know.

At least on some level, the terrorist attack also had reached her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

10:45 p.m.

Marty swung through the kitchen door, Maggie and Roberta behind him.
 
He moved to the exit, knowing what he had to do.
 
He had to get to Jennifer.
 
He had to make sure she was safe.

"This is just the beginning of it," Roberta said.
 
"Don't go.
 
They'll already be blocking the streets.
 
You won't be able to get near there.
 
There's nothing you can do."

He knew she was right.
 
The streets would be blocked.
 
Already, he could hear the wail of police sirens moving north.
 
Soon, the feds would be there.
 
Then, the National Guard.
 
He'd never get through.
 
He turned to her.
 
"I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

He pointed to the television above the bar.
 
"Turn it on Channel 1.
 
If Jennifer Barnes goes live with a report, I need you to call my cell immediately.
 
If she has two detectives with her--Mike Hines and Linda Patterson--I need you to tell me that, too."

She nodded.

"You've got their names."

"I do."

"When you touched me in there, what did you see."

"Fire," she said.
 
"People burning.
 
People dying."

And so he grabbed her forearm.
 
"Jennifer Barnes," he said, seeking her face.
 
"You've met her before.
 
We've been here together.
 
I remember you telling me how much you liked her.
 
You told me she was the one."
 
He looked down at his hand.
 
"What do you see now?"

"Nothing," she said.

"What do you mean by nothing?"

"Blackness," she said.

"What does blackness mean to you?"

"Death," she said.
 
"All I see is death."

"Whose death?"

"Yours," she said.
 
"It's your death.
 
Why won't you listen to me?
 
Why won't you believe me?"
 
She pointed at Maggie, who was standing next to Marty.
 
"She is going to kill you and you won't listen to me."

Maggie was about to intervene, but there was no stopping Roberta.

"I saw those fires," she said to Marty.
 
"I was right and still you won't listen to me.
 
If you leave here now, if you go with her, she will kill you.
 
I'm as certain of that as I've ever been certain about anything in my life."
 
She looked at Maggie, whose face had gone pale in the heat of Roberta's words.
 
"You're going to kill him."

Maggie held up a hand.
 
"Look," she said.
 
"I've kept my mouth shut since you've started your barrage against me.
 
I've tried to be polite because he's your friend, but I'm through with it.
 
Stop saying that now."

"I won't.
 
I know what I saw."

"I don't care what you saw.
 
It's ridiculous.
 
I'm not going to kill him."

"Yes, you are."
 
Roberta reached out and touched the back of Maggie Cain's hand.
 
Then, defeated, she dropped her hand at her side.
 
"You're going to shoot him, my friend is going to die and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

CHAPTER FORTY

11:02 p.m.

With the Audi's top down and the warm city air running through his hair, Wolfhagen felt in the moments before he orchestrated Carra and Ira's deaths that he was on the cusp of the greatest rush of freedom he had felt in years.
 
Certainly since he walked away from Lompoc.

Soon, he would be through with them.
 
Carra especially.
 
At last, she would forever be out of his life.
 
And while he loved to watch, a part of him now was considering doing the job himself.
 
He felt that strongly about her death.
 
He should be the one who killed her, not somebody else who wouldn't understand the pleasure of it.

Only once before had he physically taken a life.
 
It wasn't something he hired out, as he usually did.
 
Instead, it was all him.
 
He considered it part of his personal growth--an act that had changed him.
 
And when it was over, there was no remorse.
 
Just another high to fuel the high he already was enjoying.

He thought back to that day, when the feds were closing in on him, the old Bull Pen was in decline and he had used one mother of a knife on one backstabbing mother fucker's throat.
 

He'd cut so deeply, he almost severed the man's head.
 
But given the weight of the man's betrayal, it was worth it.
 
It also was easy--too easy--and he had delighted in the man's clotted, piggish squeals while Wolfhagen himself stood drenched in the fountains of blood fanning from his throat and into the room.
 

He thought back to that night and remembered that the fun hadn't begun there.
 
It had started outside, in his limousine, when he smashed Maggie Cain's head through a window and permanently disfigured her face.

It was one of his finest days.
 
But tonight would top it all.
 
There was, in fact, no question that it would
kill
it.

He was driving up Central Park West moving toward 83rd.
 
He was listening to club music on Sirius and jonesing for a taste of meth, which he'd sworn himself off, at least for tonight.
 

Need to be clear.
 
Gotta be clear.
 
Have to be clear.
 
Can't fuck this up.

Occasionally, as police cars from all over the city raced down the street with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing, he had to pull to the right to let them pass.
 
But with so much chaos unfolding on the east side of the Park, he didn't mind.
 
It was the distraction he needed.
 
Above the Park was a warm, flicking glow from all of those awful fires he'd seen on TV and the idea of them burning warmed him.

He clicked off the radio, turned left onto 83rd and slowly approached the new Bull Pen, which was housed in an elegant, unassuming pre-war building that looked exactly as it should look--like a residence.
 

If Carra had done her job correctly, the entire building would be sound-proofed, including the entrance.
 
If music was playing anywhere inside, you'd never know it by opening the front door because barriers would be in place to keep the sound out.
 

You'd also never hear the music if you passed the building, or especially if you lived on either side of it.
 
By all appearances, this was the quietest house on the block, which was remarkable given the sheer number of people who showed up late on those occasional Saturday nights when Carra opened.

As he drove past it, he looked around him on the sidewalks.
 
It didn't appear that anyone was waiting for him, but that didn't mean they weren't already here.
 
He could imagine his little assassin minions tucked away in dark corners, watching him.
 
He could feel their eyes on him as he reached the end of the street.
 
He was anxious to meet them, but he was more anxious to either watch Carra get mutilated by the kindness of one of his strangers--or by someone she used to call her husband.
 

It should be me
, he thought.
 
I should be the one holding her down and gutting her.
 
I should be the last person she sees.
 
Let them take Ira.

And there it was.
 
He'd made up his mind.
 
That's how it would be.
 
It would be he.

He drove across Amsterdam, shot down 83rd and then turned left onto Broadway.
 
He cruised to 81st Street and took another left.
 
Even if there had been a place to park on 83rd, which there wasn't, he at least wanted to be a block or two over and have the ability to run if he had to.
 
And in spite of how Carra had cut his feet, Wolfhagen could run.
 
He might be older now, but he was fast.
 
If anyone came after him, he was fairly certain that even in this state, he could get to this car with enough distance between them and take off.
 

He rolled down the street, found a spot that would be too tight for most cars to squeeze into, but this car was tiny and it fit with some maneuvering.
 
He lowered the vanity mirror and checked his crowded teeth.
 
He cupped a hand over his mouth and checked his breath, which smelled of peppermint.
 
He wouldn't look directly at his face.
 
This was as good as it got.