A Novel by Chris Hartman
Prologue
Seattle, September 23, 1986
Emily Harkness pointed at the restaurant outside the passenger window, looking at her son in the back seat. “James, I’m going in there for a few minutes. You stay in the car, okay? No matter what, you stay in this car.”
Fourteen-year-old James glanced at the building, nodded, and returned to reading his book.
She drove down the block and parked. “Okay. This shouldn’t take long. Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” James mumbled something and turned the page of his book.
Emily opened the windows to let fresh air in and got out. She stopped at the restaurant’s front door and waved in case he was looking. She knew he wasn’t. James loved Treasure Island, and it would entertain him for a while. He’d read it so many times she’d lost count. She smiled, remembering the first time he asked about breakfast in his squeaky pirate voice. The pleasant thought vanished as she opened the door. Those days were long gone.
The restaurant was not as busy as she had expected—hopefully a good sign. The scent of maple syrup and bacon guided her to the dining room.
No one approached as she walked into the dining area. The sight caught her off-guard. Green ferns and other exotic-looking plants cascaded out of table-sized cement planters throughout the space. White tablecloths, elegant glasses, and shiny silverware decorated the few empty tables. Guests filled the other tables, chatting like a flock of geese. She folded her arms, but couldn’t cover herself enough.
From behind a potted fern, she scanned each table. He wasn’t at any of them.
Laughter echoed from above.
She turned toward a set of ornate cast-iron stairs leading to a second-floor dining area. Of course they would be up there, looking down on all the regular people.
She took a deep breath to steel her nerves and headed up the stairs.
With each step, more people came into view. She stopped at the sight of the crowded table. Her hand slipped on the railing. She retreated a step and wiped her palms on her dress, not sure she could keep going. James was outside alone. If this went wrong, what happens to him? She breathed. It’ll be okay. Just don’t make a scene.
She closed her eyes and pictured her husband—his face covered in cuts and bruises. The swelling was so bad it was hard to understand his words. His gentle, confident voice was gone.
He was alive the last time she had called the prison, but she didn’t believe he would last much longer. She was his only hope. That’s why you’re here, she told herself. He needed help. James needed his father. She had to do it. She had to try again.
The chatter from the balcony turned to silence as she crested the top step.
A woman at the table pointed at Emily. “No. Someone get her out of here.”
Emily looked at the man sitting next to her. Agent Daniel Fitzgerald, surrounded by laughing family and friends, looked utterly content. The sight weakened her knees. They didn’t have a care in the world while hers was falling apart. She tried to sound confident, but the words came out choked, barely a plea. “Please, I need to talk—”
“No, no, no,” the woman said. “Don’t we have security?”
Agent Fitzgerald put down his glass. “Stop, darling. It’s fine, I’ll take care of it.”
“No, you won’t. Where is security?”
“Honey, we don’t need security.” Fitzgerald pushed his chair back.
Heads turned as he approached Emily. She wrung her hands. “I’m sorry for—”
He raised his hand to cut her off, making Emily flinch. Catching himself, he showed her both hands, then motioned toward the far side of the balcony. “Let’s talk over there.”
Emily shook her head. “I…just…I…” She forced a breath. “Can you please help him? They’re hurting him.”
He sighed. “I’ve told you before. All the times you’ve called, and all the letters, it’s not up to me.”
“Why not? You put him there. He didn’t—” Tears streamed down her face.
“Oh, not this again,” the woman at the table said. She tossed her napkin and stood.
The chair scraping the floor sent shivers down Emily’s spine.
“Mom,” a young boy at the table said.
“Stay, all of you. Daniel.” The woman charged over, glaring at Emily. “Daniel, this is not happening again. It should never have happened again.”
“What they’re doing to him—” Emily croaked.
“I don’t care. Your husband is a killer and belongs in prison.”
Emily’s neck was so stiff it cracked when she looked at the woman. The momentary pain jolted her awake. “He’s innocent,” she shouted, her voice strengthening. “And your husband knows it.” Her voice rose with determination. “The FBI knows it. He. Didn’t. Do it.”
Fitzgerald pursed his lips and shook his head. “Ms. Harkness—”
“Agent Fitzgerald, I know what you’re going to say. It doesn’t mean…they can do that—” She broke down. “They shouldn’t treat him like that.” Her voice crumbled. “Please move him until the trial. Then you’ll see.”
“Oh, we’ll see for certain,” the agent’s wife said. “Daniel, call someone. How did she know where we were? This has to stop.” She grabbed the agent’s arm.
He shrugged her off. “You need to stop too. Go back to the table.”
She huffed and returned to the table. “Fine. I’ll call her.”
The agent exhaled. “Will you please sit down? I’ll take care of this.”
Emily reached for the agent. “Please—”
He twisted away. “Don’t touch me. None of this is my fault. You need to leave. Now.”
“It’s your fault he’s in that prison. Just move him. Please.” Her voice cracked, and she coughed.
“I’ll make a call, but you’ll not like the outcome.” He turned his back on her.
Emily backed away and tripped at the railing. She stumbled but caught the edge of the serving table to steady herself. She closed her eyes, trying to focus. Her fingers gripped the table.
There was a commotion at the bottom of the stairs. Several people argued as if they were trying to decide whether or not they should come up.
Emily stood straight, smoothed her shirt, and stepped toward the agent. He was looking at his table of guests, saying something she couldn’t make out. She heard muffled sounds and ringing in her ears.
“Agent, you’re not taking me seriously.” She walked a few steps toward him. She reached for his arm. “I need your help.”
A young boy yelled from the table, “Dad, look out!” He jumped out of his chair and darted for the agent.
“David, stop,” someone yelled.
The boy tripped trying to sidestep the agent’s outstretched hand and plowed into Emily, sending her reeling backwards. Her arms windmilled as she reached for something to grab onto. There was nothing.
The boy fell and skidded a few feet. His eyes strangely locked on hers. For a moment, she had no feeling in any part of her body. Terror filled her mind. She was falling.
Her hip slammed into a step. Harsh pain made her go limp. Her back cracked. Her head bounced off the stairs. She tried to stop herself, but nothing moved, nothing obeyed her commands. Her foot smacked the banister. She bounced and slid and tumbled down the steps. Too many sounds, too many bangs and metallic tings from the iron banister as she thudded onto the floor and rolled like a rag doll until she stopped against a chair.
The person in the chair stared down at her. Someone gasped. Someone screamed.
Emily heard someone yell Mom as everything went black.
///
From across the room, James watched as his mother fell. He yelled, but no one even looked at him. He ran toward where his mother had landed. People shoved him aside, craning for a better view.
“Mom, mom, mom,” he cried out, trying to squeeze through. No one paid him any attention.
He ran to the side, trying to get around the circle of onlookers, and darted behind the stairs, where a few restaurant workers stood watching. “Mom,” he cried out.
As he pushed through, someone grabbed his shoulders. “Better stay here, little man. You don’t want to see that. We’ll find your mother in a minute.”
“Let me go!” James shouted as he struggled to get away, but the man’s grip held him in place.
A commanding voice boomed, “There’s an ambulance on the way. I’m with the FBI. Everyone needs to back away.”
James peered through the railing for the agent. Instead, he saw a woman clutching a boy to her hip coming down the stairs.
“It wasn’t your fault,” the woman said. “It was an accident, just an accident.”
The boy whimpered into her dress. “She, she, was, was going to hurt Dad.”
“I know, I know. It was an accident,” she said.
A woman behind James asked, “Did that kid push her?”
The man holding James answered, “I think so.”
James stopped struggling. That kid did this? Why? Why would he do that?
“You heard the agent, little man. Let’s go find your table.”
James twisted away and darted back around the stairs. Rounding the corner, he slid into the prep station next to the stairs. Pausing, he snatched a heavy, fancy-looking fork.
James spotted the young boy. He ran to the stairs, gripping the fork in his right hand. He aimed for the boy’s neck, cocked his arm back, and swung.
Someone grabbed James and yanked him back. His swing fell short, and the fork swiped across the boy’s upper arm, slicing through his pale blue dress shirt.
A crushing hand clamped onto James’ neck, paralyzing him.
The boy in the blue shirt stared at whoever held James.
“Hey, is your arm okay?” James’ captor asked.
A shaky voice responded, “Yeah, I think so.” The boy touched his arm where the fork had sliced through and stared at the blood smeared on his hand. He screamed, “Mom!”
The hand squeezed James’ neck to the point he could barely breathe and pushed him toward the kitchen. “Time to go,” the man grunted.
James struggled to see who it was but couldn’t break the vise-like grip on his neck. “Lemme go,” he pleaded.
“Get walking. Vince is waiting outside. This was stupid as shit.”
The voice was low and hoarse. Realization hit. James matched it to a face. “Why are you here, Wally? Mom needs help. Go help her.”
“I don’t take orders from you. She’ll be taken care of.”
“Lemme go,” James repeated.
“Shouldn’t even be here. You’re one golden child that’s going to rust.”
Shoved through the kitchen exit and into the sunlight, James whirled and cocked his fist.
“Go ahead. I’ll break it before your next breath.”
“Screw you, Wally,” James said.
“Alright, stop it.” The command echoed off the brick walls of the alley. “Wallace, get the car and meet us down there.”
James spun. Vince McCallister stepped out of a doorway. Of course, Vince was here. Wally was a gopher, one of Vince’s militia henchmen.
“Mom needs help. Vince, you need to help her. Now!”
Vince crossed the alley and backhanded James across the face. He moved with the blow, lessening the impact, but it still stung. It had been years since Vince had ‘corrected’ him, but James was sure since he was still standing it was more for show.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, kid.”
James glanced down the alley. Wally snickered, then turned the corner and disappeared. In the distance, Wally resembled the men who’d dragged James’ father from the cabin. He cringed at the memory, then flinched as a hand gripped his shoulder. He was sick of being controlled but stopped himself from shoving Vince away. That would make things worse.
Vince let go and shook his head as he walked away.
James yelled after him. “I won’t walk away like you!”
Vince turned on him. “Keep it down. You need to listen to me.” He glanced down the alley. “We need to move. The ambulance and police will be here any minute. She’ll be fine. We won’t.”
James scanned the empty alley. He sighed, knowing there was little time before the police and the FBI would swarm the place. He looked back at the kitchen door, then hurried to catch up with Vince.
Vince turned and rested his hand on James’ shoulder. “What am I going to do with you, kid?” He studied James’ face. “One thing’s for sure. Kudos to your trainer for teaching you how to take a hit. Still needs a little work though.” He nudged James toward the car. “After this fiasco, things are going to get complicated.”
Chapter One
December 14, 2006
Tucked between a lamppost and a trash can, he closed his eyes to find focus amid the chaos. When he opened them, the mission was on. Noah Lloyd scanned the area, careful not to look conspicuous. On a normal day, New York City looked like psychotic monkeys had escaped their cages and run rampant in the streets. During the holiday season, equally destructive shoppers scrambled around, competing for trinkets. Too many people crammed the sidewalks and packed the plazas just to ooh and aah at flashing lights or singing elves, or gawk at ice skaters in Rockefeller Center.
The crowds at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street were even worse. The extra cover would help, but Noah still fought the uneasy feeling of being surrounded.
Convenience store cell phone in hand, Noah followed the herd, snapping pictures he would never see. He pocketed the phone and kept moving. Across the street, the mighty Atlas held a four-foot-tall clock above the front door of Tiffany & Company. Plenty of time, but there’s no reason to take chances. Keep moving.
His mother always said waiting was better than being late. She was always early. The memory of their last Christmas together shot into his mind as he moved through the crowded street. He shoved it away.
Time to head to Central Park. Noah reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the crescent-shaped tool hidden there. He traced the handle and caressed the flipper. He could almost hear the satisfying snap of the blades locking into position. Noah crossed the street with anticipation building.
The line at the skating rink had more than doubled since he’d gotten his ticket two hours ago. A different security guard sat on the far side of the rink. The guard warmed his hands over a heater, eyes moving between the ice rink and a monitor next to him. A simple phone call earlier in the week confirmed there would be no recording.
But I left my expensive coat, miss. Can you please check to see if anyone took it?
Sorry, sir, she had replied. We’re so busy the cameras overwrite everything.
Kids, so helpful.
Inside, Noah headed to the lockers, pulling a key from a pocket in his coat. Locker 271 had been his for two hours. Tucked away were the hooded sweatshirt and brown leather jacket he had stashed earlier. If anyone had paid attention, they would have seen a normal, everyday person preparing to skate in the cold. That was partially true. He was a person. The locker snapped shut. He gave the door a quick wipe with his gloved hand. Can’t be too careful. The new gloves didn’t affect his dexterity. The clerk at the outdoor store had been right about that. They weren’t anything close to his tactical gloves, but those might get noticed. Nothing said I’m gonna kick your ass like a pair of TAC gloves.
It was hard to tell if his hands were cold or just numb from anticipation. December in New York City was nothing like the northwestern cold, which he rarely noticed anymore.
Noah checked his pocket one last time. Time to be who I need to be.
He breathed in cold air and held it until it warmed in his lungs. Exhaling slowly, a vapor cloud formed, obscuring his vision. From the crowd came a woman’s voice, and without warning, his mother’s face appeared in the vapor, blurring with the memory of the pool of blood he’d found her in. He stared at it until it vanished as the cloud dissipated. His vision cleared, sharp as the winter air.
Focused, Noah left the ice rink.
Chapter Two
Jonas Quinn stood naked, his forehead pressed against the icy window. He swiped his hand across the glass, then rubbed the frost on the back of his neck. The cold helped dull the pounding between his ears but sent shivers down his back. Twelve stories below, chilled pedestrians streamed down the New York City street. The last thing he wanted was to join them, burdened with holiday shopping. In a few hours, he wouldn’t have a choice. At least the cold would soothe his aching head. Quinn rolled his neck and arched his shoulders, loosening the tension. It helped.
Quinn stumbled around the purple velvet ottoman sprawled on its side. The morning paper lay at the base of the hotel room door. He squinted, but the headline remained blurry. He nudged it with his foot and blinked. The words came into focus.
Third Victim Claimed by Three-Strike Killer
The city can breathe, but for how long this time?
Quinn turned from the paper, closed his eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. The room smelled like sex and wine. He exhaled, surveying the room. A serving cart sat against the wall, a toppled wine bottle dyeing the white tablecloth burgundy. The stain stretched toward the carpet. He watched to make sure it wasn’t growing. Satisfied, he moved back to the window, taking brief notice of the mess strewn across the couch. Empty bottles, wine glasses, and a pill bottle. The pill bottle caught his attention. They had taken them all. He drew the blinds and headed to the bedroom.
Pillows and linens lay scattered around the bed, shoved off during the night’s escapades. A collection of lubricants, various sex toys, and velvet restraints took up most of the nightstand, pushing the lamp dangerously close to the edge. Champagne and wine bottles littered the floor. Clothes cascaded down the blue velvet upholstery of the high-back chair in the corner. Red and green dresses, white lace panties and matching bras flowed down to the floor. The memory of how they came off made him smile.
“Oh shit, where are my—” He scanned the room for his clothes. Undisturbed on the desk by the window, his suit and a white dress shirt had escaped the carnage.
A clunk came from the bathroom.
“Hey, that’s not where the soap goes.”
Quinn looked toward the voice. Two women giggled, and one of them said, “You didn’t complain last night.”
“I’m not drunk now. Hey, speaking of drunk, where’s J?”
“Oh, Jooonas,” they cooed. “Come join us.”
“Come on, J, you don’t want a cold shower, do ya?” one said.
Quinn shrugged off the mess, a pleased smirk bringing out his dimples. “Be right there,” he said.
The women laughed and squealed as he entered the shower. Quinn faced them and pulled them close. “We have more reason to celebrate. Paper says the killer got his third victim. He’s gone for a while.”
“Do you really think so?” Jennifer asked.
Quinn turned up his hand. “It’s what the paper says. The guy hasn’t been caught in five years. No reason to think he’d change now. He’s gone off to terrorize another city.” He wrapped them in a hug. “You girls have nothing to worry about.”
He kissed each one. “You’re the best.”
“Oh, Jonas, you’re going to forget all about us as soon as that little piece of metal wraps around your finger,” Jennifer pouted.
“Girls, come on now. The only thing escaping my memory is last night. God, we drank a lot.”
“We did a lot too,” Heather said, running her hand down his back.
They lathered him up as he leaned his head under the water. Soap swirled around three pairs of feet before disappearing down the drain.
“Hey, you aren’t late, are you?” Jennifer asked.
“What? What’s the time?”
“It’s got to be almost one,” Heather said.
“Fuck me.”
The girls giggled.
“You can’t handle it again, baby, and we’re all out of pills.” Jennifer leaned over and kissed Heather.
“Shit, I gotta go, girls.” He rushed out of the shower and dried himself with a towel but couldn’t help pausing and watching the girls lather shampoo into their hair.
“Damn.” He sighed and left to get dressed.
“Hey, don’t forget to call us when you’re ready for a real bachelor party,” Heather shouted from the shower.
He heard the giggles as he pulled on his pants and reached for his shirt. After dressing, he rushed to the door and bumped into the glass-top table while putting on his blazer. The table lamp teetered. He reached for it, but grabbed the lampshade. It pulled right off. The lamp teetered. He lunged for it, smacking his knee on the table leg, and caught it as he fell. He waited for the pain to pass. All he needed was to add property damage to the already disastrous room.
Quinn stood and put the lamp on the table. The girls’ purses had fallen. He bent to pick them up. A familiar symbol on a card caught his eye. He pulled out the card, and a burst of anger flared through his body. He knew the symbol on the key card sleeve. It was from the last hotel. He shook both purses, dumping the contents on the floor, then threw them across the room. One hit the serving cart, knocking the bottle to the floor. He found another key card and glared at both, one in each hand.
He stormed back to the bathroom. Jennifer was toweling herself off. Heather was still in the shower.
Jennifer looked up. “Hey, what are—”
Quinn grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the vanity. Beauty products scattered across the counter and tumbled to the floor. Heather rushed over to help, but Quinn shoved her away. She slipped on the wet tile and landed with a thud. She yelled for him to stop. He threw the key cards at her.
“What the fuck have I told you about keeping this quiet? No one can find out. No pictures, no fucking souvenirs.” Quinn snarled through gritted teeth.
Jennifer whimpered, swatting at his arms. His hand clenched tighter.
“Let her go. You’re hurting her!” Heather cried from the floor.
“Why the fuck do you have them?” He released Jennifer.
“Have what?” she croaked.
“Those goddamn key cards are from the last two hotels. They were in one of your fucking purses.”
“We didn’t—” Jennifer said.
Quinn slapped her hard. She spun, lost her balance, and crashed on the tile despite grabbing for the vanity.
“They were in your purse. Don’t lie to me. You fucking well know this could ruin me.”
“Jonas, we would never do that to you,” Heather said. “You’ve been so good to us.”
Jennifer sobbed on the floor, holding her face. “We di-didn’t do it. We, we wouldn’t J.”
“Then how do you explain them being in your goddamn purse? Huh?”
“I don’t know,” Heather screeched.
Quinn stomped toward her. She slipped, skidding away. “Why do you have them? They didn’t just fall into your goddamn purse.”
His phone rang with an escalating ringtone. “Shit!”
“I swear to fucking god, if I find out… if you’ve done anything to fuck this up for me, it will be the last thing you ever do. Do you fucking understand?”
Both girls nodded.
Quinn reached for the cards, smacking Heather’s foot away from one. “Make sure you clean this place. I better not hear a word from the hotel.”
“Jonas, you don’t have to worry. We always do,” Heather said.
He left the bathroom, kicking a bottle of hairspray out of his way. He stuffed the key cards in his pocket, then hit redial and took a breath before she answered.
“Hey beautiful,” he said as he walked into the living room. “Yeah, I’m on my way…I have to change my shirt when I get there. Some bit— blonde woman spilled water on me…yeah, can’t wait to get out of the city too…love you, see you soon.” He hung up and pocketed his phone.
“Not one word!” he yelled over his shoulder and slammed the door.
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