Wet Work: The Definitive Edition (6 page)

“
Good to see you,” he said as Corvino reached the limo. The assassin just nodded. Hershman threw his cigar to the tarmac, grinding it out with his heel.

“
Get in,” Hershman said, opening the door. “I want to know what the hell went wrong.”

Hershman had every reason to be pissed. There were those in the CIA and the National Security Council who’d been opposed to Spiral’s existence since its inception eight years ago, and this screw-up was going to give them enough ammunition to shoot the task force off the top shelf of Covert Operations. Word had it the President was putting pressure on Robert Schlesinger, the newly appointed Director of Central Intelligence, to terminate certain C.O. activities, the old hypocrite. The President had certainly soiled enough dirty laundry during his term as Director.

Del Valle stepped into the limo last, the driver pulling away before he had the door shut.

Hershman stared expectantly at Corvino, who gazed absently down at his feet. Del Valle had never seen him that way before. Whatever had happened had affected Corvino deeply.

“
Well?” Hershman growled.

Corvino blinked, hesitant.

“
What happened?” Del Valle asked quietly.

He told them everything.

Except that the man he’d killed should have been dead. They wouldn’t believe him. And the more he thought about it, the less he believed himself.

ALEXANDRIA.

SUNDAY. 10:04 A.M.

Nick liked to start the day with a large breakfast, a habit instilled in him by his mother whose great pleasure was cooking. The kitchen had been her domain, the heart of the home, the place where as a child he could always find her. He would wake up each morning to the smell of her preparing eggs, home fries or grits, grilling strips of bacon. She cooked a full breakfast even on those days when his father was working nights or sleeping off a hangover. Those were the mornings of which he had his fondest memories, just the two of them sitting down to a well-laid table before he caught the bus to school, not having to walk on glass as he did when Will Packard was in one of his black moods.

The bacon on the grill smelled wonderful as he scrambled eggs. The memory of his mother making breakfast reminded him of Sandy’s dilemma. He’d never really recovered from his mother’s death. He’d met Sandy six weeks after Mom’s burial, and the two of them had begun to spend so much time together he found himself seldom home—partially out of a desire to see his father as little as possible, but mainly because the house was haunted with Mom’s presence. Even the love he shared with Sandy and the kindness her mom had shown him couldn’t ease the empty ache gnawing at his insides. For two years he drifted, despite Sandy’s being a lighthouse shining in his personal darkness. Now it was his turn to steer her from the rocks of grief.

Leaving the eggs, he poured two glasses of fresh orange juice and sliced a grapefruit, placing the halves in bowls on the table, next to the vase of roses he’d bought for her that morning at the 7-Eleven. Sandy usually preferred a light breakfast, but today he had made extra home fries and bacon. She probably wouldn’t eat lunch on the train, so he was sure she’d want something more substantial than half a grapefruit and toast.

He’d risen earlier than usual, his sleep troubled. He was aware she’d awakened in the night and decided to let her lie in until 10:15. Any later than that and she’d miss the noon train.

He turned the eggs, picking at the home fries sizzling in the other pan. Good, they were done. He turned off the burner, then poured two cups of coffee, sipping his as he heard the stairs creak. She was up. Perfect.

Sandy appeared in the doorway as he scooped the eggs onto the plates.

He smiled. “I was just coming to wake you.”

Her hair was sleep-strewn, her eyes bleary, but she looked beautiful in the pale blue silk gown he’d bought for her last birthday.

“
I smelled the bacon.”

She sat down at the table, and as she picked up a glass of orange juice, the gown slipped to reveal the curve of a breast. She pulled the fabric together, hugging herself. Tension lines were etched into her forehead.

“
You want some?” He offered a plate.

“
In a while.” She sipped her coffee as he sat and started on his food. Though neither of them said much in the mornings, the silence today seemed pregnant with unspoken thoughts. Nick ate heartily, casting quick glances at his wife between mouthfuls, but her mind remained elsewhere. He continued eating for a while, then paused as she turned towards the sink, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Twelve empty Rolling Rock bottles stood on the counter next to the empty Kendall-Jackson chardonnay bottle. He’d cleaned up the debris of last night’s dinner as soon as he’d come downstairs, dishes that lay forgotten as they’d set sail on the sexual tide.

“
I’m married to a cop,” she said suddenly, “but I’m not going to be married to an alcoholic.”

“
You won’t be,” he replied through a mouthful of toast.

“
No? What about the two six-packs you put away yesterday? Or the one the day before?”

“
Drinking a few beers doesn’t make me a drunk.”

“
A few? Don’t kid yourself. You’re drinking every day. Beer, bourbon. And that’s just at home. What’s it going to be like once you’re working the streets? Stopping off at a bar after work with other rookies? It worries me. Cops and booze. They go together.”

“
Don’t start.” He put his fork down.

“
You’re turning into your father.”

Anger flared inside him. He fought to control it.

“
Not true.”

“
I can see it.” Her expression was firm.

“
Damn it! I like beer, like a shot now and then. That doesn’t mean—” He cut the rest off, aware his voice was rising.

“
Doesn’t mean you’re an alcoholic? Not now maybe, but in a few years…denial’s the first sign. Your father denied he had a problem. Now look at him, fifty-seven going on seventy. An old man with one kidney who ignores his doctor and does nothing but drink in front of the TV. A lonely, bitter fool who lost everything because of a bottle.”

“
My father’s an asshole who never gave a damn about anyone or anything!” Anger knotted his stomach. He leaned towards her. “That’s not me. You know it!”

“
Yes, you’re a good man. Kind. I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t. But you’ve got the beginnings of a problem—
You have problems
, problems I can’t deal with right now. And I don’t want to see them pull us apart.”

The eggs tasted slimy as anger turned his stomach to acid. Angry at her, angry at himself. And as always, angry at his father. He looked down at his plate.

“
I’m worried about you.” She reached over the table to take his hand, her tone softening. He flinched at her touch.

“
Don’t be.”

Sandy sighed, withdrawing.

“
I’ve been strong for you, but everything’s changing. And now I need you to be strong for me.”

He turned to gaze out the window, the truth in her words stinging inside. What should have been a bright blue sky was tinged green, an effect caused by the comet’s tail as it blocked the Sun’s ultraviolet rays, a phenomenon the astronomers on TV had stated was exceptionally rare. But what he felt was not. Anger, bitterness, guilt, denial were old friends, sour enemies, an extended family of conflicting emotions found in any alcoholic home. Sandy was right, and at that moment he resented her.

“
I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

He continued to look out the window as she left the room, her breakfast untouched. He’d lost his appetite, and the smell of bacon now struck him as cloying. Picking up his plate, he opened the trash can under the sink and swept the food into the sack. The second plate followed. He hated to waste good food, another trait instilled in him by his mother, but he wanted to erase all signs of the breakfast he’d planned to be a quiet, reassuring start to the day. Then he picked up the vase and tossed the roses in, too.

So much for romance.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

It had begun.

In the wake of her celestial beauty, Comet Saracen had bestowed upon the Northern Hemisphere a terrible legacy. On Sunday, May 28th, no one knew about it yet. Well, a few thousand people knew. But those who did discover the secret of the comet’s influence didn’t get a chance to share it with the rest of the world because they were dead. Those who survived their encounter with the emergence of Hell on Earth were ignored, the stories they told dismissed as the ramblings of disturbed minds. But the tales they told were true, and the rest of the world would soon find out how deadly that truth was.

By then it would be too late.

In fact, it was already too late. While most Americans enjoyed a quiet Sunday reading the paper, washing the car, eating large brunches, or indulging in whatever they usually did on the last day of the weekend, a cancer of death was spreading with the speed and voracious appetite of a brush fire.

From that day on, there would be no rest, no peace.

Especially for the dead.

Alex Wilson was walking through Washington D.C.’s National Arboretum trying to come to grips with the fact his wife had left him for another woman. He was sipping from a hip flask of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, trying valiantly to hold back tears and deal with the reality that three blissful years of married life had just been flushed down the toilet, when he noticed two derelicts.

Alex had seen some rough-looking street-people during the five years he’d worked in New York and the six months spent in Pittsburgh before he’d moved to D.C. with Marie. These guys, though, looked like shit wrapped in rags, he thought, as he continued to wander through the trees. Out of the corner of an eye, he noticed them move away from him and continued on his way. Shrouded by his grief and trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest, he dismissed them.

Why had Marie done this to him? He’d never had the faintest clue that she harbored lesbian tendencies. Leaving him for another man he could understand. But a woman? That was a joke in a Woody Allen movie. It didn’t happen in real life—not in the lives of the people he knew anyway.

But it had happened to him, and he didn’t know what to do. What was he going to tell them at the office—the truth? They’d laugh at him behind his back, make jokes. Marriages broke up all the time—but not because your wife decided she preferred pussy to penis.

Alex was concentrating so deeply on his confusion that he failed to notice that the two bums had returned and were now following him.

He didn’t even know they were behind him until the older bum hit him with a heavy branch, while the other one gouged his eyes out.

Hundreds of yards away people heard his screams and dismissed them as teenagers just fooling around.

The derelicts tore Wilson’s body apart with their bare hands and began to eat.

In the Baltimore suburbs little Tessy Leone was bored. Daddy was working at the hospital, and Mommy was asleep in front of the TV. If there’d been anything interesting to watch, she would have stayed indoors, but the day was so nice and hot that even if she wasn’t sure she wanted to play with her Barbie dolls, she decided to take them outside anyway.

She had just set Barbie’s Dream Boat afloat in her little plastic pool when she noticed old Mister Rizzo, their neighbor, wandering around his yard like he’d lost something. She hadn’t seen him for two days, and Mister Rizzo looked sick. He was very pale and had a big purple mark around his neck.

He smelled bad.

But Tessy was bored. Daddy wasn’t going to be home until late and Mommy was no fun anyway, so when Mister Rizzo asked if she would like to come over and feed the goldfish, she went with him.

She pinched her nose. The bad smell was even worse in the house. There were lots of flies buzzing around, and Mister Rizzo had a brown stain on his heinie like he’d gone big potty without taking his pants down. He did smell like poo-poo now that she thought about it, and she decided she didn’t want to feed the fishes after all.

Mister Rizzo smiled at her when she said should go home and see Mommy and he said wouldn’t you like to feed the fishes and she said no and—

In Hoboken, New Jersey, Marc Hellier was working on his second six-pack of the day, trying to think how he could get rid of the body of the dead girl who’d choked to death on her own vomit during the night after they had been doing eight balls of Coke and Smack, when she opened her eyes and leered at him.

He dropped his Bud, spitting beer all over the dirty Indian rug.

The girl raised her half-naked body off the worn couch.

“
Hold me. I’m so cold…
please
…hungry.”

Hellier screamed.

Des Moines, Iowa.

After months of deep depression, Sylvia Harkin decided to end it once and for all with a razor blade.

It wasn’t her first suicide attempt, but, by God it was going to be her last. She was sick of the world and all the people in it. They were vile, selfish fools. The ozone layer was eroding, there were no jobs, and she couldn’t lose weight no matter how hard she tried. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she thought she saw a beautiful woman staring back at her. Not beautiful in the physical sense, but beautiful on the inside. Other people didn’t see that, however. All they saw was a fat, lonely woman in her thirties with a bad complexion, no job and no one to love her.

Well, screw them. They wouldn’t have to look at her anymore. She was going to take a permanent vacation with Death. Death would be her lover, and he would understand. He wouldn’t play cruel jokes on her like the kids in the neighborhood who left dog turds on the doormat and scrawled obscene things about her on the sidewalk outside her house. Death would be gentle and kind, she thought, as she wallowed in the warm bath.