Fatal Error rj-13 Page 9

  Because he hated Louise Myers.

  To the Dormentalist's credit, she had followed the woman to her apartment, even knew her floor, and somehow had managed to take a picture of her.

  It all sounded perfect, but the resultant photo was blurry and the lighting poor. The woman in the photo did resemble Louise Myers, but Kris saw enough differences to make him wonder. Last year they had tracked her to Wyoming through her debit card.

  Since he was the only one left alive who had seen Louise Myers in the flesh, it had fallen to him to follow her there. But the trail had dried up. Now she was back in the city. Couldn't stay away, apparently. Not that he blamed her. He blamed her for many things, but he'd been to Wyoming and wouldn't want to stay there either.

  And since he was the only one left alive who could recognize her, he was here to make certain this was the woman they sought.

  The only one left alive…

  He ground his teeth at the good men he had sent after her who had never come back… at least not alive. Shot to death, one and all. Drexler said it couldn't have been her, but Kris wasn't so sure.

  When Kris had seen her she'd been comatose in a hospital bed. Was that why he was still alive? Because she'd been unconscious.

  A woman's voice spoke through the door.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Yes, please. I live on fifth floor and I am looking for my dog."

  "Sorry. I haven't seen any dogs."

  Wasn't she going to open the damn door?

  "Please?"

  He took one of the fliers he had brought along and held it up to the peephole. He'd found a picture of something called a shih chon-a sickeningly cute cross between a shih tzu and a bichon-and had printed a close-up of its face on the flier. He figured it would be irresistible.

  "I haven't seen a single dog on this floor."

  Still the door remained closed.

  "I did not think you would. He got off leash outside. Would you please keep watch for him?"

  Locks clicked and the door opened a few inches. Kris noticed a chain pulled tight across the opening. A woman's face appeared.

  Despite his training and experience, he couldn't help a short, sharp intake of breath.

  Louise Myers.

  Thinner, longer hair, but her. No question. His first instinct was to kick down the door and strangle her.

  "Are you all right?" she said.

  "Yes. I mean, no. My wife and I are very attached to our Binky."

  She smiled and seemed to relax. "Binky?"

  He forced a smile. "Yes. A long story. But if you see him about, that is name he will answer to. Grab him if you can-he is friendly-but if you cannot, just follow him and call that number. We are offering five-thousand-dollar reward."

  He passed the flier through the opening and she took it.

  So easy to grab her wrist and yank it through. Then he'd "I'll keep my eyes open."

  "Thank you. Thank you so much."

  The door closed and he walked away.

  Mission accomplished.

  Drexler wanted only her address, nothing else. Not even observation. Simply a location.

  But Kris wanted so much more.

  16

  Ohio, Kewan thought as he trudged through the dark up a rise behind a guy he'd met only a few hours ago. The fuck am I doing in Ohio?

  He'd been ushered into a car right after this morning's meeting and driven out to the middle of nowhere. He'd been met by this white guy named Clinton Bridger who'd be putting him up and showing him the ropes. Exactly what ropes, no one was saying.

  He thought it had been cold in the city, but here was much worse. The wind-damn, it cut like a razor. Even with his hooded parka and heavy pants, he was freezing his nuts off. Bridger didn't seem to mind. Maybe it was that thick biker mustache, or maybe he was wearing long johns.

  Better question: The fuck am I doing in Ohio freezing my ass off near midnight in the middle of open country?

  When they reached the top of the rise, Bridger pointed to a brightly lit building about a quarter mile away.

  "There you go," he said.

  Kewan was puffing. "Looks like a warehouse."

  "It's not. It's the McVicker IXP."

  Kewan knew what that meant: Internet exchange point.

  "Oh, like a super data center."

  "More like data center to the nth power. An IXP is where all sorts of ISPs crisscross and share information. Take that out and a shitload of people don't have Internet."

  "So that's our next target?"

  "Lemme tell you about that place, friend."

  They weren't friends, but Kewan let it pass.

  "They chose this spot because we don't get earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, or floods around here. It's got two electric supplies from two separate substations, plus its own generators. The walls are foot-thick reinforced concrete with Kevlar lining. What few small windows it's got are bomb-resistant laminated glass. And the air handlers inside can be set to recirculate in case of a gas attack. See those planters ringing the place? They're really bollards. Plus they've got two staggered sets of retractable bollards at the gate. Only two ways into the building-the front door and the loading dock. The fire doors are exit only. Security cameras are everywhere. And even if you get inside, there are more layers of security within."

  Kewan stared at the place. "So you're telling me getting in's a bitch."

  "More than a bitch. Nigh on impossible."

  "So what do we do?"

  He started back down the rise and waved for Kewan to follow.

  They got into his pickup truck-still holding a little warmth since when they left it-and drove about a mile along a four-lane county road, where Bridger stopped on the shoulder. He pulled some sort of crowbar from behind his seat and hopped out.

  "Come on."

  Back into the cold. Damn.

  He joined Bridger by the rear of the truck where he stood watching the traffic. Wasn't much. Just one set of lights coming their way from the left.

  "Where we going?" Kewan said, rubbing his gloved hands and shivering.

  Bridger pointed across the road with the bar. "There."

  "Why don't we just drive over there?"

  "No." He pointed again. "There."

  Kewan saw now that the bar wasn't pointing across the street, but at the street-at a manhole cover.

  "What?"

  As soon as the lone car passed, Bridger walked to the middle of the road, stuck the end of the bar through a hole in the manhole cover, and levered it free. He pushed it aside and gestured to the opening.

  "In you go."

  "Like hell."

  Bridger dropped the bar inside, then slipped through, disappearing through the hole. A flashlight beam speared up from the opening.

  "Hurry your ass down here before a car comes!"

  Well, okay, Kewan thought. Long as you're in there first.

  He eased down. His feet landed in about an inch of water as he found himself in a concrete pipe about four feet high.

  Shit!

  He crouched as Bridger popped his head and an arm back through the hole and used the bar to maneuver the cover back into place.

  "What the fuck we doing here?"

  Bridger flashed his beam along the collection of wires and thick cables running along the side of the pipe.

  "Some of these are fiber-optic cables-OC-twenty-four and forty-eight-running to the IXP I just showed you. You've got other OC cables running into it from other directions, but almost all of them are as easy to access as these."

  Kewan saw what was going on.

  "You're kidding. They're this easy to get to?"

  Bridger nodded, grinning. "Yep. They go to all that trouble to protect the IXP building, but the lines feeding into it are sitting ducks. We've got brother Kickers inside lots of these places, and they feed us the cable layouts, tell us which are the important ones."

  "So all we've got to do is take a hammer and-"

  "Hammer? My friend, we'
ve got something a lot better than hammers at our disposal."

  "Like what?"

  "You'll see."

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  At first Dawn thought it was just another of the backaches that had totally plagued her the past two months. But they'd never bothered her in bed before. Usually the ache stopped once she got herself horizontal. But this one had awakened her. Not that she slept much anyway these days. But she'd finally managed to doze off.

  She checked the bedside clock: 3:22. Another long, lonely night.

  The pain eased. Maybe she'd twisted in her sleep and set off a spasm, because this had seemed like more of a clenching than an ache. She closed her eyes and tried to find sleep again. So hard these days. She tried counting backward. That sometimes There, starting in the back again, only this time reaching forward into her lower abdomen, almost like a period cramp, except it couldn't be. She was The baby? Was this a contraction? Was she going into labor?

  Oh, God, she'd been totally waiting for this moment, hungering for it, because it meant the end of this eternal pregnancy. And yet she'd totally dreaded it as well, because it meant pain. How was this baby ever going to pass out of her? No way it could fit.

  No. She could do it. She'd have to. Countless women through the ages had done it. So could she.

  But she was so scared. All through the pregnancy she'd had no one to talk to about it. She wished her mother were here. Mom would tell her how it would go, talk her through it. But Mom was gone, murdered by that Wait. There. It eased off.

  Shouldn't she time the contractions? She'd read about that in her pregnancy books. She noted the time on the clock, and waited… and waited. And then, eight minutes later, it came again.

  No question about it, she was in labor.

  She pressed the call button next to her headboard. A minute later, just as the contraction was subsiding, Gilda knocked and stepped into the room.

  "Yes, Miss?" she said in her vague, East European accent.

  She'd tucked her gray hair up inside some sort of old-fashioned sleep cap and wrapped herself in a bulky, flower-print robe. Her eyes were puffy slits and she looked anything but happy to be called to Dawn's room.

  "I think it's started."

  The slitted lids parted halfway. "What has started?"

  Dawn wished she and Gilda had been getting along better. She could use some help now but didn't know how much Gilda would be willing to give. Dawn had asked forgiveness for what had happened to Henry, but Gilda didn't seem to have much of that in her.

  "Labor! I think the baby's coming."

  The older woman's eyes popped wide open. "Yes? This is true?"

  "I think so. I've had three now."

  The woman's face creased as she smiled and clapped her hands. "I must call the Master!"

  "Never mind him! Call Doctor Landsman!"

  "No-no-no!" she said, bustling out. "The Master must know first!"

  Mr. Osala was in North Carolina or someplace like that. What could he do?

  Dawn punched her pillow. She'd call Dr. Landsman herself if she had a phone. But she didn't, and didn't know the passcode for the few the duplex contained.

  So she watched the clock and waited. Twelve minutes and still counting when Gilda returned, looking uncertain.

  "He is not answering and he has not responded to my messages."

  "Maybe just as well," Dawn said. "It seems to have stopped. Maybe it was just, you know, false labor."

  "Perhaps."

  "Do you have any children?"

  Her expression hardened into the stony look Dawn had grown accustomed to. "Yes."

  "How many?"

  "One."

  "A boy or a girl?"

  "A boy."

  This was totally like pulling teeth.

  "What's his name?"

  "Kristof."

  "What was delivering him like?"

  Her eyes glittered and her lips curved into a smile. "Terrible. I was your age. The worst pain I ever have had. I will never forget it."

  Dawn's stomach lurched. What a mean bitch. "You're just saying that. You're just saying that to scare me."

  Gilda shook her head slowly back and forth, right, then left, once each way. "No, it is truth. But in end I had my Kristof."

  "Does he work for Mister Osala too?"

  A single nod. "In a way."

  "Does-?"

  And then a contraction hit, harder than before. She writhed on the bed.

  "It's back! Call Doctor Landsman. Now!"

  Gilda hurried out, leaving Dawn to deal with the pain. This one was lasting longer than the others. It seemed to go on forever.

  Gilda popped back holding a terry-cloth robe, usually reserved for the pool area.

  "The doctor says to come right away."

  Dawn struggled from her bed and started for her closet. She'd been wearing an oversized Giants T-shirt to bed these days.

  "I need to get dressed first."

  "No-no-no! He says baby will come very quickly when it begins." She held up the robe by its shoulders and shook it. "Come-come. Georges awaits to drive you."

  Dawn hesitated, then turned and slipped her arms into the sleeves. She'd be changing into a hospital gown as soon as she got there anyway.

  Gilda hustled her out into the hall where Georges waited like a bad portent. A liveried block of granite, with about as much emotion. Without a word-he rarely spoke-he led her to the penthouse's elevator. Dawn was praying she wouldn't get hit with another contraction before the hospital. She didn't want to double over in front of Georges.

  Not like he gave off a creepy vibe or anything. He gave off no vibe, and that was sort of creepy in itself. He looked relaxed and wide awake in his fresh, uncreased suit. Didn't he ever sleep?

  She realized the insides of her thighs felt wet. She looked down and saw thin fluid running down her legs into the Crocs she'd slipped on. Her gut clenched. She knew what that meant.

  "My water broke!"

  Georges looked down, looked at her, then pulled out his cell phone and pressed a button. After a few seconds he said, "Gilda? Mess in elevator."

  The door slid open into the building's front hall. Georges led the way to the front doors.

  "Which hospital are we going to?" she said as she sloshed along in her shoes.

  "No hospital."

  She stopped. "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Doctor Landsman has a clinic. Your baby, he is much too special for hospital."

  2

  "This guy looks promising," Jack said, handing Munir a file. "Remember him?"

  Until tonight, Munir never had realized how many people his department had let go-"downsized" was the euphemism-in the course of the past year. He was amazed.

  And exhausted. They had been at this for hours, checking names against an online list of victims of the Trade Tower attacks. No hits so far. That didn't rule anyone out, because the madman's sister could have been married, and therefore wouldn't necessarily carry the same name.

  Munir had slept in fitful naps since Wednesday and could barely keep his eyes open. But he opened the file and blinked the text into focus.

  Richard Hollander. The name didn't catch until he read the man's performance report.

  "Not him. Anyone but him."

  "Yeah? Why not?"

  "Because he was so…" As Munir searched for the right word, he pulled out all he remembered about Hollander, and it wasn't much. The man hadn't been with the company long, and had been pretty much a nonentity during his stay. Then he found the word he was looking for. "Ineffectual."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yes. He never got anything done. Every assignment, every report was either late or incomplete. He had a wonderful academic record-good grades from a good school, that sort of thing-but he proved incapable of putting any of his learning into practice. That was why he was let go."

  "Any reaction? You know, shouting, yelling, threats?"

  "No." Munir remembered giving Hollander his
notice. The man had merely nodded and begun emptying his desk. He hadn't even asked for an explanation. "He knew he'd been screwing up. I think he was expecting it. Besides, he had no southern accent."

  For the sake of completeness, he checked the 9/11 list, but no Hollander.

  Munir passed the folder back. "It's not him."

  Instead of putting it away, Jack opened it and glanced through it again.

  "Wouldn't be too sure about that. Accents can be faked. And if I was going to pick the type who'd go nuts for revenge, this guy would be it. Look: He's unmarried, lives alone-"

  "Where does it say he lives alone?"

  "It doesn't. But his emergency contact is his mother in Massachusetts. If he had a lover or even a roomie, he'd list them, wouldn't you think? 'No moderating influences,' as the head docs like to say. And look at his favorite sports: swimming and jogging. This guy's a loner from the git-go."

  "That does not make him a psychopath. I imagine you are a loner, too, and you…"

  The words dribbled away as Munir's mind followed the thought to its conclusion.

  Jack grinned. "Right, Munir. Think about that."

  He reached for the phone and punched in a number. After a moment he spoke in a deep, authoritative voice: "Please pick up. This is an emergency. Please pick up."

  A moment later he hung up and began writing on a notepad.

  "I'm going to take down this guy's address for future reference. It's almost three A.M. and Mr. Hollander isn't home. His answering machine is on, but even if he's screening his calls, I think he'd have responded to my little emergency message, don't you?"

  Munir nodded. "Most certainly. But what if he doesn't live there anymore? Or is visiting his mother?"

  "Always a possibility." Jack glanced at his watch. "But right now I've got to go pick up a package. You sit tight and stay by the phone here. I'll call you when I've got it."

  Before Munir could protest, Jack was gone, leaving him alone in his office, staring at the gallery of family photos arrayed on his desk. He began to sob.