The Sixth Man (30 page)

“Kel,” he had said. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll be back, Eddie. A lot,” she had told him. Then she had given him something. He had held it in his hand. It was a piece of metal on a chain.

She had said, “That’s the medal of Saint Michael, the Archangel.”

Roy had repeated this back to her, something he unconsciously did whenever someone gave him new information. It always made her smile. But this time she didn’t. Her look remained serious.

“He’s the protector of children. He is the leader of good versus evil, Eddie. In Hebrew
Michael
means ‘Who is like God?’ And the answer to that is no one is like God. Saint Michael represents humility in the face of God. Okay?”

He had repeated this back to her word for word, including her inflections. “Okay.”

“He is an archangel. He is the supreme enemy of Satan and of all fallen angels.”

She had said this last part while looking directly at her stepfather, who had glanced the other way, his face reddening.

Then she was gone.

A half hour passed and there was another argument and Roy had been at the center of it. It began with a slap. His father was drunk. The next blow was harder, knocking him out of his chair. His mother had tried to intervene, but this time his father would not be denied. She finally fell unconscious to the floor under his battering.

His father had turned to him, made him pull down his pants. Six-year-old Eddie was crying. He didn’t want to do this, but he did because he was terrified. His trousers fell to the floor of the kitchen. His father’s voice was low, soft, a singsong tone in his inebriated stupor. Roy had felt the man’s hands on his privates. Smelled the alcohol on his cheek. The man—Roy could no longer refer to him as his father—pressed against him.

Then he had been ripped backward off his son. There was a crash. Roy had pulled his pants back up and turned. He was knocked head over heels against the wall as the two struggled and slammed into him. His sister had come back. She was fighting her stepfather with the ferocity of a lioness. They crashed around the room. She was taller, younger, the same weight as her opponent, but he was still a man. He fought hard. She hit him in the face with her fist. He rose back up and she kicked him in the stomach. He went back down but the alcohol and the fury at having been discovered doing
vile things to his son seemed to energize him. He grabbed a knife off the kitchen counter, rushed at her. She pivoted.

With all his prodigious mental skills, this was the one memory Roy had never been able to draw on at will.

She pivoted.

That was all he could recall about those few seconds of his life. Age six.

She pivoted.

And then it was a blank. The only memory gap he had ever had in his life.

When the blank ended his father was lying on the floor, blood dripping from his chest. The knife stuck out from his body; his sister standing over the man and breathing hard. Roy had never seen anyone die until that moment. His father gave a little gurgle, his body stiffened and then relaxed, and his eyes grew completely still. They seemed to be staring solely at him.

She had rushed to hold him, make sure he was okay. He had rubbed the medal, the medal of Saint Michael that was around his neck.

Saint Michael, the protector of children. Satan’s nightmare. The soul of redemption.

And then the memory faded. And then it was gone.

“Edgar?” said Murdock sharply.

They had taken his Saint Michael’s medal when he had come here. It was the first time he had been without it since that day years ago. Roy felt an enormous hole in his heart without it. He didn’t know if he would ever get it back.

“Edgar? I know. I found out about the E-Program. We need to talk. This changes everything. There are people we need to go after. Something is really wrong.”

But the FBI agent could not break through. Not now. Not ever. Eventually there was the squeak of shoe soles on cement. The door slid open and closed. The smells, the sounds of the man receded.

Saint Michael protect us.

“T
HAT’S IT,” SAID
K
ELLY
P
AUL
.

She and Sean were standing outside a block of four-story brownstones on Fifth Avenue up in the East Seventies.

“Which one specifically?” he asked, as they stood there on the sidewalk opposite, a tree canopy shielding them from the rain.

She pointed to the largest one that had moldings and pediments and columns handcrafted by skilled workmen from over a century ago. “Nine thousand square feet. A lovely treetop view of the park from the front windows. And the inside is as splendid as the outside.”

“Have you been inside it?”

“Once.”

“How?”

“I never reveal my sources.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes.”

“Describe him.”

“I can do better.” She pulled out a photo and showed it to him.

“He looks arrogant.”

“He is. But no more so than others in his position. He’s also paranoid, which makes him careful. Sometimes too careful, which can be exploited.”

“Why did you bring me here, really?”

“For this.”

She took his arm and drew him further back into the shadows.

A few minutes later five people came out of the brownstone; all were carrying large, open umbrellas. Bunting, his wife, and their
three children: two girls and a boy. The kids wore two-hundred-dollar sweaters and equally expensive shoes. Their heads had never seen the inside of a barbershop, only a salon. The wife was beautiful, refined, tall, slender, and exquisitely dressed, her hair and makeup at the level of a black-tie event. Bunting had on a tweed jacket, pressed jeans, thousand dollar Crocs boots, and a swagger.

They were the epitome of the American Dream, displayed on the illustrious cement of New York’s high-dollar area.

“The family?”

Paul nodded. “And their guards.”

Sean turned his head to see the two men appear from the shadows and trail the Buntings.

“One is a former SEAL. The other is ex-DEA. Both are contractors working for a sub of BIC. He has two other men in his security detail. Sometimes they run four on, particularly when traveling abroad. Other times they rotate two on and off. Like now.”

“How did you know they would be coming out tonight?”

“They do this four times a week at roughly the same time. I believe the wife insists. Bunting doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like routines as a general rule, but he likes to keep the peace at home, too. He actually loves his wife and family very much.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sources again, Sean.”

As they watched, Bunting reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to receive a call. He stopped walking and motioned to his wife that he would catch up. Sean noted that one guard stayed with Bunting.

Paul said, “He seems to have gotten an interesting call just now.”

They watched as Bunting walked in a tight circle while his guard stood by patiently. He was gesticulating and obviously not happy. He clicked off and immediately made another call. This took less than five minutes. Then he put the phone away and jogged onward to catch up with his family.

“So where do they go on these jaunts?” asked Sean.

“They’ll go ten blocks, enter the park, make their way back, exit in the Sixties, turn north, and head back here. They talk, the kids can be kids, normal.”

“Because they’re not? Normal?”

“Bunting certainly isn’t. He exists in this world, but he doesn’t really live in it. If he had his preference he’d live only in his world. But of course he can’t, so he makes certain concessions. But I can tell you that even though he’s out now with his family and talking about school and grades and the next charity event Mrs. Bunting has planned, his mind is really working on what to do about my brother.”

“How much does his wife know about what he does?”

“Let’s just say she is not intellectually curious about that. She plays the good wife. She’s smart, ambitious to a certain degree, good with the kids. Exactly how her husband generates the money necessary to keep the brownstone and vacation house, private school tuition and all the rest going, she doesn’t really care.”

“You’ve really done an exacting study of the Buntings.”

“Once I knew my brother would be working for him, I thought it was my duty.”

“Did you want him to work there?”

“I thought I did. I was wrong, of course. Eddie was just fine right where he was. But I just wouldn’t let myself see it. Misguided loyalty. Putting country over family. It’s not a mistake I would repeat.”

“You feel guilt for this, then?”

“Yes.”

Sean stared at her, obviously more than a little surprised. It was a frank admission for someone who so clearly gave little away. He had just assumed that she would do what she often did, answer a question with a question. Sensing she might be receptive to opening up more now he said, “Can I ask something?”

“Certainly.”

“Are we going to follow them?”

“They are being followed. Just not by us.”

“You have help?”

“I have acquaintances that assist me from time to time,” she answered.

“Another question?”

She started walking in the direction opposite the Buntings and he followed, rolling his travel bag behind him.

He took her silence as acquiescence. “You talked about the E-Program before, but what is the recruitment like?”

“You never even get asked to come in unless you’re the best of the best based on your track record. A lot of preliminary testing that all ordinary people would fail, but that all potential E applicants pass with flying colors. Then the testing becomes more and more rigorous. People start to fall away at these intervals. Eventually it comes down to the Wall. Only about three percent make it that far.”

She had stepped inside one of the entrances to Central Park. They slowly made their way along one of the walkways. Sean remained silent until they had gone well into the park.

“The Wall?”

She nodded. “That’s what they call it. It’s the monster through which all intelligence flows. The Wall is like going from high school football straight to being MVP of the NFL. Very, very few make it.”

She stopped and sat down on a bench.

“How do you know all this? From your brother?”

She shook her head. “He would have, but I didn’t let Eddie talk to me about it. He could have gotten into trouble.”

“So, your inside sources again.”

She stared off into the darkness, the gloom dispelled only by the path lights overhead. The rain had picked up, and Sean could feel a chill seeping into his bones.

“No,” she finally said.

“So how then?”

“Peter Bunting recruited me for the program seven years ago.”

M
ICHELLE
M
AXWELL HAD BEEN BUSY
up in Maine while her sidekick was traipsing between D.C. and New York. She’d met with Eric Dobkin and gone over what the Maine State Police knew about Carla Dukes’s death. The most telling piece had been that an expedited autopsy had been done and the slug removed from the woman’s brain. It was a .32-caliber and had been matched to the slug found in Ted Bergin. There was no forced entry in Dukes’s home, so she might have let the person in. That could mean that Dukes and Bergin had known the same killer. Yet how could that be? They had both only recently come to the area and, so far as anyone knew, didn’t even know each other.

Was the killer a cop? Or an FBI agent?

That’s what Michelle was thinking now, even more strongly than before. And if that was true, it was beyond troubling.

She had also gone over to Cutter’s Rock to see from a distance if anything unusual was going on. She had set up her observation post on a high point that allowed her to see the compound almost in its entirety. On the surface everything seemed normal. Guards were at their posts. Gates were closed. Patrols were ongoing. The fence was no doubt electrified. She was there for an hour and saw only one visitor go in and out the whole time.