Half-Past Dawn

CHAPTER 38

A single car sat in the driveway of the stately white colonial home in Riverdale, New York. While Peter Womack was the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, earning the wages of a federal employee, both he and his wife, Katherine, came from money, the trust-fund brigade. Because of their station in life, they were encouraged to give back, to work in the service of the country that had afforded their families a life of privilege.

The porch light was on, and several windows glowed at this late hour. Jack knew that Peter was in the middle of a trial, and he never joined his family out in the Hamptons until all work was behind him. Jack had considered Peter a friend, and although they and their wives had dined out, although they had worked together, Jack admitted to himself that he never truly knew the man. They walked in different worlds, not just federal and local but background, financial circles, and privilege. Jack was a DA because of passion, Peter as a result of duty.

He was not a cynic, but when Jack saw Peter’s name in Cristos’s book, he was not totally shocked. As they drove to Peter’s house, Jack grew angrier with every mile. It was Peter who suggested that Jack prosecute Cristos; it was Peter who limited the fed involvement, all the while knowing that Jack would do the right thing and get the conviction. And, Jack imagined, it was Peter who was involved with the false execution of Nowaji Cristos, allowing him to live another day.

Jack tried to banish the thought that Peter would have allowed Jack and Mia’s current situation but would withhold judgment until they spoke. But the bottom line was that Peter was connected to Cristos, and if he didn’t know where Cristos was, he knew the people who would.

Jack rang the doorbell as Frank and Joy stood back on the slate walkway.

He waited a moment. No answer. He rang it again.

After a full minute, no sound came from the home.

Without a word, Frank took off around the house, peering through the windows.

Jack and Joy remained at the front of the house as Jack gave the button one last push. But this time, he heard movement.

Someone approached the entrance hall, the lock was unlatched, and the door was pulled open. Frank stood there, his hand wrapped in his sleeve so as not to touch the knob.

“Back door was open,” Frank said.

Joy and Jack stepped inside the small wainscoted foyer.

“Don’t touch anything,” Frank said.

Jack knew full well what that meant as Frank led them through to the study off the living room.

Peter sat behind an antique partners’ desk, a Tiffany lamp’s glow lighting the dark wood surface. The right side of his head was missing, the maroon curtains behind him covered in bits of flesh and bone. A pistol lay on the floor beneath his left hand.

“Look at his neck,” Frank said.

Jack could see a shade of bruising around his trachea.

“Jack.” Frank waited until his friend finally looked up from the body. “The list in the back of that book, the one with Peter’s name on it, Director Warren’s name, Tierney’s… yours. It’s not the type of list we think. It’s a hit list.”

The heavy bolt of the lock slipped back with a thud, and the door opened to reveal a man balancing a heavy tray precariously on his right hand. He stepped into the room; the sound of the city flowed in before he closed the door behind him. He slipped the key back into the door lock, securing it with a single turn, tucked it back into his pocket, and took hold of the silver tray with two hands.

“Brought you a little dinner,” the man said with a forced smile.

Mia sat on the bed, her head hung low.

“Sorry we don’t have something a bit more appealing, but this is what we’re all eating.” The tray had two plates covered in cold cuts, two apples, a loaf of bread, and three bottles of water.

“I’m Jacob,” the brown-haired man said, trying to get a reaction from Mia, but she remained silent, her eyes distant. “Well, it’s here if you want it.”

When Jacob leaned down, both hands holding the tray, Mia sprang from the bed and snatched the gun from his holster.

Jacob spun around, but Mia already had the gun pointed at him.

“You’re kidding me, right?” There was a mix of fear and humor in the young man’s eyes.

Mia tapped the gun against his head. “Do you want to see how much I’m kidding?”

“You wouldn’t shoot.” Jacob’s words sounded more hopeful than definitive.

“Then you don’t know me very well.” Mia stepped back and pulled back the bedspread to reveal long white ropes, hand-woven from torn strips of bedsheet.

“Lash your legs together,” Mia said as she tossed him a four-foot length.

Jacob reluctantly sat on the floor and tied his legs, laughing as he did. “You don’t have a chance of escaping.”

“You’d be surprised how far a woman will go to save her family.”

“You’ll be surprised, then, because it won’t be very far.”

“On your knees,” Mia snapped.

Jacob shook his head as he complied. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Hands behind your back.” Mia brought the gun close to his eye, reminding him of what she held.

As Jacob held his hands behind his back, Mia grabbed a length of woven bedsheet tied in a noose and, walking behind him while jamming the gun hard into the back of his neck, dropped it over his wrists and pulled it tight, binding his hands together. She yanked it roughly for emphasis, wrapping the excess twice more about his wrists, ensuring that he couldn’t free himself.

“I can’t tell you what a mistake you just made.” Jacob’s humorous tone was completely gone, replaced with a mix of anger and fear. He sneered. “If Cristos has his sights on your family, they don’t have a chance.”

Mia’s temper boiled, and she drew back her arm, smashing the butt of the gun into the man’s temple. He tumbled from his knees and hit the hard floor face-first, out cold. She leaned over and grabbed the elegant cloth napkins from the silver tray and stuffed them into Jacob’s mouth.

She rifled through his pockets, empty except for a single key.

She slipped the key into the lock, and with a quick turn, the heavy dead bolt slipped back into the door with a click. She laid her ear on the door and listened. She wrapped her hand around the brass handle and slowly turned.

As she cautiously opened the door, what she saw shocked her. Despite the constant whine of city noise, the sounds of traffic and people, she could not have been farther away from the image the sounds of the city painted in her head.

Mia stepped into a room, and her captivity immediately took on a whole new perspective. While expecting to be met with a dingy, run-down warehouse, perhaps a decrepit apartment building, she saw before her anything but.

The room she had been held in for the last twenty-four hours was not a room but a closet, an anteroom to a large, elegantly appointed bedroom. The walls were covered with soft floral-print paper, and thick green velvet curtains framed the large windows. A canopy bed dominated the room, while its matching dresser and makeup table sat off to the side. She looked at a small stereo on the floor and felt the fool. A CD was on perpetual repeat, and the sounds of city noise, cars honking, bus doors closing, sirens racing off to nowhere poured from the speakers.

Mia’s fear grew as Jacob’s words began to ring in her ears, you won’t get far.

Jacka stood outside Peter’s house, looking at the dark clouds looming overhead, the orange lights of the city reflected off their underbellies. Flashes of summer lightning burst inside their five-mile-high confines.

There was no doubt in his mind that Frank was right. The list in the back of the book was a hit list. Reports were already coming in that FBI Director Lance Warren was dead. Being on Cristos’s hit list hadn’t fazed him; he was killed once already. He had never been involved in anything recorded in those books. His name was on the list for retribution, for revenge, for putting Cristos to death the year before.

Jack’s cell phone rang, startling him. He saw Mia’s number come up, but he knew who was calling. He placed it to his ear.

“Heard you escaped.”

“Where is my wife?”

“You betrayed me while I hold the proverbial blade to your wife’s throat,” Cristos raged through the phone. “If I’m not holding the contents of that case, every single piece in my hands by dawn, I will kill your wife… not quickly. Slowly, drawn out, where you will hear her screams no matter where you are in the world. And then I will kill your children. I will do it in front of you as you watch the life slowly seep from their young eyes. Then I will render you helpless, crippled, blind, with nothing but the memories of their cries to keep you company for the rest of your days.”

“You son of-”

“I imagine you’re at Peter Womack’s house trying to track me down. Don’t bother with that list in the back of my book. They’re all dead.”

“Where are you?” Jack begged through gritted teeth.

“You know exactly where I am.”

And Cristos hung up.