The Sign (14 page)

Minutes later, the Mustang was crossing the Longfellow Bridge and veering onto Broadway, a lone car gliding across the desolate cityscape. There was a stark beauty to the stillness around him, but Matt didn’t feel any of it. His mind was swirling with wild theories, and with them came an increasingly uncomfortable feeling, a sense of a sinister malignancy closing in on him.

He tried to stay focused as he made his way to the intersection with Fayette and a three-story Victorian house that matched Bellinger’s address. He did a precautionary drive-by, looped back on himself a couple of blocks up the street, and cruised past the house again for another look. It had stopped snowing, and the neighborhood was now huddled under a couple of inches of white frosting. The lights of a lone Christmas tree blinked out of a bay window on the ground floor, but otherwise, the rest of the building was dark, and the street seemed equally comatose. He also noticed that the snow outside the house was undisturbed.

He pulled into a small alley that separated the house from the similar, slightly larger one next door, and switched off the throaty V-8—not the most discreet of engines. He waited a moment to make doubly sure he was alone, then climbed out of the car. Everything around him was eerily quiet, the air cold and torpid under a moon that shone more brightly now that it wasn’t filtered by a veil of snow. He rummaged through his glove box and found what he needed, his trusted Leatherman multi-tool and a small, stiff piece of wire, and pocketed them, then climbed out of the car, pulled up his collar, and walked briskly over to the house’s front porch.

The labels on its buzzer showed three occupants, which matched the number of floors—one apartment per floor. Bellinger’s name was on top, which Matt took to mean that he had the penthouse. The lock on the communal entrance didn’t pose too much of a challenge. It was a five-pin tumbler, a standard household lock that was surprisingly easy to pick, even without his preferred tools for such a job—a pair of paper clips. Getting past the lock on the door to Bellinger’s place, up the stairs and on the third floor, was equally effortless. Matt had had way too much practice over the years.

Easing the door closed behind him, he slipped in quietly without turning the lights on, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. He stepped deeper into the apartment, wishing he had a flashlight. The small entrance hall opened up to twin, open-plan living and dining rooms with a two-sided gas fireplace between them, its mantelpiece lined with a dozen or so Christmas cards. Moonlight bathed the wide, bay-windowed space with a delicate, silvery sheen that ushered him farther in. He advanced carefully, all senses on high alert. He spotted an upright halogen lamp with a dimmer switch in a near corner, by a large leather couch and away from the windows, and decided it wouldn’t be too visible from the outside on a low setting. He chanced it, barely turning it up. The dimmer buzzed slightly as the lamp suffused the room in a faint, yellowish gleam.

The room was impeccably arranged and ordered. A sleek, glass-and-chrome desk faced a wall on the opposite side of the room, away from the window. Matt angled across to it. It was covered with neat piles of newspapers, books, magazines, printouts, and unopened mail. The clutter of a busy professional with an inquisitive mind. Matt spotted a small box of Bellinger’s business cards, picked one up, and pocketed it. He could see that something was prominently missing from the man’s desk. A computer. A large flat screen was still there, as was an orphaned docking station for a laptop, and a wireless mouse. The laptop itself was, it seemed, gone.

Had they been here already?

Matt tensed up and gave the room another scan, his ears now listening intently for the slightest disturbance. They wouldn’t have had any trouble getting in. They had Bellinger, which meant they had his keys. He thought about it for a beat. If they had been here, they were probably already long gone. It had been maybe three hours since he and their van had parted company.

Still, he had to be sure.

With an even lighter step, he crept across the hallway and checked the rooms at the back of the apartment. He found two bedrooms, one a large master suite overlooking the side street and the back, the other smaller and sparsely furnished, both empty. He checked the bathrooms, also clear. He relaxed a touch and made his way back to the living room, where a blinking light on a coffee table caught his eye. It came from the base unit of a cordless phone that had waiting messages—just one of them, according to its
LED
display.

He clicked the playback button. An androgynous, digital voice informed Matt that the message came in at 12:47 a.m., which piqued Matt’s interest. People didn’t normally get calls at that hour.

“Dude, where the hell did you disappear to?” a hyper voice on the machine quizzed. “What’s going on? You’re not home, you’re not picking up your cell. Come on, pick up the damn phone, will ya? This thing’s gathering some serious mass. The blogs are going loco over it, you gotta see this. Anyway, call me back. I’m staying locked on the news in case it decides to make another appearance. Call me, or . . . whatever. I’ll see you at the ranch tomorrow.” He sounded deflated before he hung up.

Matt grabbed a pen, picked up the handset, and hit star-69. Another digital voice recited the caller’s number to him. It was local. As he wrote it down on the back of Bellinger’s business card, a faint noise intruded at the edge of his hearing, a car pulling up outside the building, shortly followed by the dull thuds of car doors closing.

He crossed to the window, but the crackle of brief radio transmissions told him what it was before he peered out and saw the two men walking away from an unmarked sedan and disappearing into the building.

Coming to check out Bellinger’s place.

Which meant one of two things.

Either they were more goons, on the same payroll as the guys who’d stuffed him into their van, or they were plainclothes cops and Bellinger’s body had already turned up.

Matt could just imagine how that one would play out.

He flinched as the entry phone in Bellinger’s apartment buzzed, then sprinted to the front door and cracked it open. He waited, listening intently, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, then it buzzed again, this one longer, more impatient.

The buzzing seemed to confirm the latter scenario. The hit team had Bellinger, meaning they had Bellinger’s keys. They wouldn’t need to ring up. Matt felt the blood seep from his face, and a crippling sense of further unreality swept through him as he pictured what might have happened to Bellinger. He waited by the door, his mind racing through possible outcomes, none of which seemed promising.

The entry phone stayed ominously silent.

He decided to take another look, and leaving the door slightly ajar, he scuttled back to the bay window and peeked out.

He could see the two men standing by their car, which he could now tell was a standard issue Crown Vic. One of them was on his cell phone, but Matt couldn’t hear what he was saying. Matt relaxed somewhat. They came, they buzzed, no answer, they’d leave. Or so he hoped. Then he saw the other man cock his head toward the entrance, as if reacting to something, before disappearing under the porch again.

Matt’s instincts sharpened. He slipped back to the door and, very quietly, picked up the entry phone’s handset. He came in mid-conversation.

“—on the second floor,” a woman’s voice was explaining. “Bellinger’s got the penthouse directly over me.” She hesitated, then asked, “Is everything okay?”

The man ignored her question and asked her, “Does Mr. Bellinger live alone, ma’am?”

Does,
Matt thought, for a second. Not
Did
. Present tense. Maybe Bellinger was all right.

The cheery thought was quickly overruled. The guys in the van hadn’t looked like they were kidding. Bellinger was dead, he knew it. Why else would these guys be here? Why would they be asking if he lived alone?

The woman’s voice had a nervous quaver to it. “Yes, I think so. I mean, he’s single. I don’t think he lives with anyone. But I’m surprised he’s not picking up. I’m pretty sure he’s home.”

Her comment struck Matt like a bucket of ice water.

“What makes you say that?” the man asked, his voice snapping to attention.

“Well, I heard him come back. These are old houses, and even with the refurb, the floorboards have this creak in them that’s always there, and I can hear him coming in and out, especially when it’s late and it’s quiet outside—”

“Ma’am,” the man interrupted abruptly, clearly impatient.

“I think he came in earlier,” she said with more urgency, “and then he went out again. But then he came back.”

“When did you hear him come in?”

“Not long ago. Ten minutes, maybe? He should be upstairs.”

Matt’s nerves went haywire.

He heard the man’s tone take on a much harder edge as he ordered the woman, “I need you to let us in, ma’am, right now,” followed by a shout to his partner and the distinct sound of the entrance door snapping open.

Seconds later, heavy footfalls were charging up the stairs.

Amundsen Sea, Antarctica

G
racie’s stomach fluttered as she watched Dalton rise off the deck of the royal research ship. Unlike the
Shackleton,
its stablemate, the
James Clark Ross
wasn’t endowed with a helipad. Transfers at sea could only be made by winching passengers to and from a hovering chopper. Which, in sub-zero weather and with a gargantuan wall of ice collapsing a few hundred yards away, wasn’t for the fainthearted.

It was now six hours since the sign had first appeared. After their extended, high-definition clip was broadcast and carried by the other channels, the news had simply exploded. It was all over the news updates, splashed across the world’s TV screens, and on every Internet news site. Armies of reporters and pundits were talking about it, wondering about it, offering wild theories. People across America and in the rest of the world were being interviewed and asked what they thought the sightings meant. As expected, some of the responses were glib and dismissive, but most people were seriously intrigued. And it was still the middle of the night across North America. Most people there were asleep. The next day, Gracie knew, was when the real frenzy would begin. Her satphone hadn’t stopped ringing with requests for interviews and comments, and her inbox was also flooded.

Across every channel, every news network, one expert after another was being wheeled in to try and explain it. Physicists, climatologists, all kinds of scientists, dragged in from every corner of the planet. None of them had a clue. They couldn’t offer any remotely convincing insight into how or why it was happening, and while that excited some people, it also scared a lot of them. The religious pundits were faring better. Faith was one explanation that didn’t carry the burden of proof. Priests, rabbis, and muftis were voicing their thoughts on the sign with increasing candor. On one clip that Gracie had watched, a Baptist pastor was asked what he thought about it. He replied that people of faith everywhere were watching it very closely, and wondered if there was anything other than the divine to explain it. It was a view that several other interviewees also expressed—and that perspective was gaining ground. Faith, not science, was where the true explanation lay. The thought consumed Gracie as she strained against the downdraft from the Lynx’s powerful rotor and shielded her eyes to watch Dalton’s slow ascent. A small smile cracked across her face as he waved to her from above, coaxing a wave back. Consummate filmmaker that he was, he held a small camcorder in one hand, capturing every hair-raising moment.

She noticed Finch turn, and followed his gaze to see the ship’s captain join them. He looked up, taking stock of the transfers’ progress, which had to be swiftly executed, as they were already at the edge of the helicopter’s operating range, even with its additional fuel tanks, then turned to Finch and Gracie.

“I got a call from someone at the Pentagon,” he informed them, shouting to be heard against the deafening rotor wash.

Gracie glanced over at Finch, both of them visibly and suddenly on edge.

“They wanted me to make sure no one left the ship before their people got here,” the captain added. “You in particular,” he specified, pointing his finger at Gracie.

She felt a paralysis of worry. “What did you tell them?”

The captain grinned. “I said we were in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t think anyone was going anywhere for the time being.”

Gracie breathed out in relief. “Thanks,” she said and beamed at him.

The captain shrugged it off. “It wasn’t even a request. It was more like an order. And I don’t remember signing up for anyone’s army.” His words were laced with bemused indignation. “I’ll expect you to kick up a big stink if they ship me off to Guantánamo.”

Gracie smiled. “You’ve got it.”

He glanced overhead at the chopper, then leaned in closer. “We’re also getting flooded with requests from journalists and reporters from all over the place. I’m thinking we should seriously bump up our room rate and rake in some cash.”

“What are you telling them?” Finch asked.

He shrugged. “We’ve hung up a no vacancy sign for the moment.”

“They’ll keep asking,” Gracie told him, “if they’re any good at what they do.”

“I know,” the captain said, “and it’s hard to say no, but this is a research ship. I don’t want to turn it into a Carnival cruise. Trouble is, we’re the only ones out here. The only other ships within a couple hundred miles are a Japanese whaler and the Greenpeace vessel that’s hounding it, and I don’t think either of them’s in a particularly hospitable mood.” His deep-set, clear eyes twinkled mischievously at Gracie. “Looks like it’s still your exclusive.”

She smiled back, the gratitude evident in her expression. “What can I say? I must be blessed.”

“I’m kind of surprised you’re in such a rush to get off my ship while everyone else seems so desperate to get on,” the captain queried with playful, barely disguised suspicion.