Counterplay

37

Kane stood with Lucy just inside the entrance to the Columbia University boathouse just to the north of Baker Field to get out of the rain that had begun to fall with an accompanying rise in the wind. Lying just outside the door like a useless sack of potatoes was Clay Fulton, his wrists bound behind his back.

They were awaiting the arrival of two speedboats that would carry them up the Harlem River, beneath the Henry Hudson Bridge, through Spuyten Duyvil and past the Amtrak bridge to the Hudson. There they would be met by a larger boat that would take them up the Hudson-the least likely place for cops to be watching.

When he’d formulated the plan, Kane had expected that everyone’s attention would be focused on the devastation of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the death of the Pope, as well as a couple thousand others, including Butch Karp. And the plan had continued to go smoothly from the moment the doors on the ambulance had closed and they were beyond the police barricade.

Then Fulton had sensed something when the ambulance pulled over to the curb, but when he went for his gun, he found himself staring down the barrel of “Agent Hodges’s” 9 mm Beretta. I’m afraid you have the misfortune of finding yourself at my mercy again, Detective.

Kane! Fulton exclaimed.

Yes, indeed, Kane replied. And these gentlemen with the rifles pointed at you-and I might add just in case you’re feeling heroic, at Lucy-would like you to disembark now. We need to get ready for a little boat ride.

They’d all loaded into a couple of vans, which had driven to the apartment building across from Baker Field. There Lucy had been given another shot to wake her up while they waited for a call that the speedboats were at the boathouse dock.

When Kane got back to the apartment building, he’d been in a great mood. He was free, immensely wealthy again, and had brought ruin and despair to his enemies.

However, his mood had blackened when the dirty, bald man with the bulging eyes stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell outside the building. Master, he said, weeping and reaching out for Kane. I’ve come to warn you.

Warn me about what, you filthy pig? Kane said, backing away from the man’s hand. Two of his al Qaeda bodyguards moved between them.

They know Dickens! the man cried.

What?

Dickens! They know Dickens! “Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most extravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among us every day.” They know these things about you and are coming! the man cried, the smell of his rotting teeth wafting over Kane.

Who’s coming? Kane had asked in spite of himself, wondering at the same time, Do I really want to know this?

Who? the man asked as if he’d thought the answer was obvious. Who? Why, Karp, of course. He fell to his knees, groveling as he wept.

Karp, of course. The three words sent a shiver up Kane’s spine and formed a cold, tight fist in his stomach. “Shoot him,” he directed the bodyguard closest to the man.

He’d hoped the quick, terrified scream followed by two silenced shots would make him feel better. But the knot was still in his gut when he entered his apartment and turned on the television, expecting to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral in ruins and his nemesis Karp dead. Only to his incredulous eyes, the church was still standing and, as the broadcaster cheerfully reported, The Pope is safe!..Two terrorists have been captured, but most are dead, as are an undisclosed number of civilians. Another newscast indicated that New York District Attorney Butch Karp, as well as his wife, Marlene, plus several unknown civilians, are credited with stopping the terrorists and rescuing the Holy Father…

Nearly purple with rage, Kane kicked the television off the stand. Goddamn, I hate that fucker Karp! he shouted. Every time I turn around, that son of a bitch and his frickin’ wife are messing up my life.

I’d suggest you surrender now, Lucy said with a smile on her face. You know he’s coming for me…and for you.

Kane turned to her with his eyes looking like they might bug out of this head. He aimed his gun at her head and kept it there shaking in his hand for a full minute before he lowered it and laughed. You know, he said calmly. This is even better. He gets to go home and find his precious little boys have been turned into worm food. And I still have his daughter…so I guess he will be thrilled to receive the baby pictures after all.

I’ll kill myself before I have your baby, Kane, Lucy said.

Kane tsked. What-a good Catholic like you committing a mortal sin that would send you straight to hell?

It would be worth it, she replied.

We’ll see, he said just as the call came in that the boats were on their way.

The group had left the building and crossed the street where the fence into the boatyard was open. “My dad once told me a story about Spuyten Duyvil,” Lucy said as she peered out into the dark night.

“Oh, really? I like stories. Why don’t you tell me while we wait for our cruise ship,” Kane said.

Lucy paused. She thought she’d heard Andy’s childlike voice when Kane replied about liking stories.

“Well, the story goes that long before the Revolutionary War, a brave trumpeter-his name was Anthony Van Corlaer-used to blow his trumpet when the leader of the colony of New Amsterdam, Peter Stuyvesant, wanted to warn the people or call them together.

“One night, Stuyvesant heard that the English were going to attack New Amsterdam so he sent Anthony to warn the Dutch settlers along the Hudson. But a storm was brewing, sort of like tonight, so that when Anthony reached the tip of Manhattan, the ferry that should have been there to take him across was nowhere to be found. But he’d been given a mission, so he decided he would swim across at the spot where the Harlem River and the Hudson met. Even without the storm, the waters in that area were known to be especially turbulent with bad currents. But he vowed to swim across ‘en spijt den duyvil.’ In spite of the devil.”

Kane frowned. He did not particularly like the way this story was going. “Are you going to get to the point or bore me to death?”

Lucy smiled. “If it would bore you to death, I’d talk all night…. Anyway, Anthony dove into the water and began to swim across. However, the devil had heard his boast and reached up and grabbed Anthony’s leg. The brave lad pulled out his trumpet and blew such a blast that it drowned out the storm and startled the devil so much that he let go of Anthony. The sound of his trumpet warned the settlers far up the Hudson that danger was approaching, so they were prepared when the English arrived. But poor Anthony was so exhausted by his efforts that he drowned.”

“So the moral of the story,” Kane said, “is: don’t fuck with the devil.”

“Or use his name lightly, Mr. Kane.” Lucy smiled back. “You never know when he might reach up and grab you by the leg and pull you back to hell.”

Kane scowled but any comeback was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from across the road where he’d left a rear guard to watch for any cops. He could see flashes from the area of the park and more popping noises.

An Arab man came running up, obviously frightened. “We are being pursued by jinn,” he said. “We must leave.”

“ Jinn with guns?” Kane asked. “Why am I surrounded by such fools?”

“They move like shadows, and when you shoot at them, they aren’t there anymore. They are jinn,” the man repeated confidently, which started several of the other men murmuring.

Kane raised his gun and shot the man in the stomach. “Now,” he told the others as they watched their comrade suffering on the ground. “Let’s have no more talk about jinn and get to the boats.”

There was more gunfire. Closer. Kane looked down toward where the street rounded the corner into the park. It was hard to see in darkness through the rain, but he thought he spotted several shadowy figures run across the street.

“Move!” he shouted, suddenly afraid himself. “Get to the boats!”

“What about him?” one of the men said pointing at Fulton.

Kane considered shooting the detective. “Two hostages are better than one,” he said. “Bring him. Two of you stay here and hold them off, then join us in the second boat.”

With that they ran down the boat ramp for the floating dock. At Kane’s direction, Lucy climbed in the front boat, followed by Kane. Two terrorists brought Fulton, who they dumped on the floor; then one moved quickly to the helm while the other untied the boat. The second man was about to get in when a bullet caught him in the back and he fell into the water.

“Go! Go!” Kane shouted.

“What about the others?” the man at the wheel shouted.

“Leave them,” Kane said. “Just go.”

The speedboat pulled away from the dock with a roar. Lucy looked back and saw several men running for the second boat, firing over their shoulders at the shadow people who chased them.

One of the terrorists fell and lay still. Another was struck in the leg. He went down but got back up and was trying to hobble to the boat. But a tall shadow figure caught him. There was a piercing scream loud enough to be heard over the roar of the boat engine.

Grale, Lucy thought. And John is with him! Come on, guys. Here I am!

The last of the terrorists got to the floating dock and, throwing off the line, jumped in the boat. It looked like he was going to get away, but then another pursuer ran down the dock and leaped just as the boat was starting to pull away.

Jojola landed hard and rolled across the deck. The man at the wheel saw him land and left his post to meet him. Pulling a long, curved knife, he slashed at Jojola, who threw himself backward to avoid the blow. The man leaped for Jojola, intending to finish him, but instead impaled himself on the Indian’s upraised hunting knife.

Jojola pushed the body off and stood, just as the wet figure of David Grale, who’d dived in after the boat, pulled himself over the side. Grale rushed forward and took the wheel and gunned the engine so suddenly that Jojola was thrown back and nearly overboard.

It was difficult to see with the rain pelting their faces, and the water was getting increasingly choppy as they sped into the Spuyten Duyvil area. On the subway, Grale had told him that although the waters could look calm, they were deceptive. The Harlem River is affected by the ocean tide, he’d said. Especially at high tide, which it will be at tonight, the waters in the river actually push up against the waters from the Hudson that flow down from the north. Strong swimmers have been sucked beneath the surface and never seen again.

Now, over the roar of the boat engine, Grale pointed ahead at a dark object in the middle of the river. “That’s the Amtrak rail bridge,” he said. “It’s only about eight feet above the water at high tide. You can’t go under it, but it swivels in the middle to let boats pass and then back again for the train to pass over. I’m not sure, but it looks like it’s open for boats now. If they get through it and Kane’s men close it before we can get there, we’ll lose them.”

Up ahead, Kane saw that the Amtrak bridge was open and smiled. His men had obviously reached the control office and forced the operator, who was undoubtedly now dead, to swing it open.

Some nemesis you turned out to be, Mr. Karp, he thought, happily. Yes, you managed to save your stupid cathedral and precious Pope, but your life will be one of never-ending tears when you find your sons butchered and have to live with the idea that your daughter is my whore. I’ll ruin you politically as well when my friends in the media hear how you’re related to Russian gangsters. My new good friend Rachel Rachman will be the district attorney, and I’ll be able to return to the city…perhaps with a new face and identity.

Kane looked behind. The second boat with the shadowy pursuers would never catch him in time. We’ll scoot through and then shut the door, he thought happily. But the smirk left his face when his driver sounded the boat’s horn, which for the moment drowned out the sound of the storm, reminding him of Lucy’s story.

“What in the hell!” Kane shouted.

His man pointed ahead. The bridge was swiveling to a close, and it was going to be a race to see if they could reach the opening in time.

“Faster!” Kane shouted.

“There is no more speed,” the man shouted back.

They almost made it, but at the last minute, the driver had to cut the engine and turn the boat sharply to avoid crashing into the end of the bridge section. The drastic move caused the engine to stall and despite repeated efforts it wouldn’t start up again.

“No!” Kane howled. “How did this happen?”

As an answer a spotlight suddenly stabbed down from a helicopter overhead. “This is the New York City Police Department. Put down your weapons and remain where you are with your hands up.”

Suddenly, the lights on the bridge were turned on. Kane shaded his eyes and tried to see who was on the bridge. He could just make out three figures standing on the edge of the bridge looking down at him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, making out the features of the tall one in the middle, he screamed in rage. “Karp! I don’t believe this!” He aimed his gun and fired until he was out of bullets, but his aim on the pitching boat was worthless and all his shots went wide.

“Shoot them, dammit,” he yelled at his driver. The man obediently grabbed his AK-47 and jumped up on the bow of the boat. He aimed the rifle but never got a shot off before there were two flashes from one of the figures on the bridge and the terrorist fell back and into the water.

Up on the bridge, standing between his wife and Ned, Butch Karp picked up a bullhorn. “It’s over, Kane,” he said. “There’s nowhere to go. The river’s sealed off in both directions. The Pope is safe. So is the cathedral. And by the way, you don’t have any money.”

“You’re lying, Karp,” Kane said, suddenly turning to point his gun at Lucy. “Open the bridge or I swear I’ll kill her.”

Kane glanced over as the second boat pulled up twenty feet away. A tall, pale man stepped to the edge of the boat. He looked almost like a skeleton. Or the pale rider, a voice said in Kane’s head sending a spasm of fear through his body.

“Nope, telling you the truth, Kane,” Karp said. “Emil never got the chance to reroute the money into your foreign accounts. You got nothing, nada, zippo.”

Kane’s call to confirm the transfer of the money from the Vatican’s bank had arrived with Emil Stavros already in handcuffs and Ray Guma holding the phone so he could speak. Dante Coletta was also handcuffed and sitting on the floor, somewhat worse the wear for having tried to duke it out with Clarke Fairbrother first.

Kane stood for a moment as if contemplating his surrender. But fast as a snake, he reached out and yanked Lucy to her feet and then held his knife at her throat.

“So this is how it ends, Karp,” he said. “But first you’re going to have to watch me cut this bitch’s head off.”

Karp spoke quietly. “Can you get him, Ned?”

Ned shook his head. He still had the terrorist’s handgun from the cathedral, but it was an automatic, not what he was used to, and the boat was pitching. “I’m as likely to hit her as him.”

“Open the bridge, Karp,” Kane said. “Is it worth watching your daughter die?”

Down in the boat, Lucy was finishing her conversation with St. Teresa when Kane pulled her to her feet. For the first time in a long time, Teresa had appeared as a visual manifestation sitting on the seat at the back of the boat. But she looked different than she had in the past. Before, she’d appeared as a young, not particularly pretty woman in fifteenth-century robes; for unknown reasons, this time she was wearing a blue silk shirt over white cutoffs. She also looked to be in her midthirties and was very beautiful.

“I swam this once,” Teresa said. “But I wouldn’t try it at high tide.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy replied, though she realized she’d said nothing aloud.

“No reason,” the woman said. “Just a memory of who I used to be. Andy’s got memories, too, of your kindness once before. I suggest that the white queen make her move. Oh, and Lucy, when you see Ray Guma, tell him hi for me.”

I’ll do that, Lucy thought, then said aloud, “Andy, you need to stop him.”

Kane tightened his grip and pressed the knife harder against her throat. “What the fuck are you talking about, you little whore.”

“Andy. You have to be strong.”

“Quit calling me ‘Andy,’ I hate that name, and you’re giving me a headache,” Kane snarled. “As soon as we get your daddy, I mean Karp, to open the bridge, I’m going to cut your fuckin’-”

“You shouldn’t use bad words,” a boy’s voice scolded.

Lucy felt the grip on her loosen for a moment, then it tightened again.

“Shut the fuck up, you little wimp,” Kane yelled.

“Let her go,” Andy replied. “You’re a bad man.”

“Get out of my head!” Kane shouted again. “You’re not real. You died a long time ago…worthless…stupid.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Andy rhymed, “but words will never hurt me.”

“I’ll hurt you, you son of a bitch,” Kane said, letting go of Lucy who crawled over next to Fulton.

Kane slashed at the air with his knife. “Die, you little faggot,” he screamed, slashing again. “You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re a whore’s son.”

“I’m just a little boy,” Andy cried. “I want to be loved.”

Kane slammed his left hand down on the gunwale of the boat. He raised the knife and chopped down, cutting off three fingers. “There, you weakling,” he screamed. “Now, run and hide. You never could handle pain.”

Blood pouring from his wounded hand, Kane turned to Lucy. “Nice try, bitch. But your little friend is gone. And now I’m going to finish you, too.”

Kane took two steps toward Lucy with his knife in the air. A shot rang out from the bridge above, but the bullet whizzed past. He leaped for the girl, but even as he prepared to drive the knife into her chest, Fulton’s foot lashed out and caught him in the stomach.

The blow knocked Kane to the deck. When he rose, the big detective was between him and the girl.

“Well, Detective.” Kane smirked as he dropped into the Kali on-guard pose. “Guess it’s like I said…I should have killed you back in February.” He feinted with the knife for Fulton’s eyes, then stabbed at his chest. But instead of his blade sinking into flesh, he was surprised when his hand was deflected outward; then the wind was driven out of him when the detective’s other hand shot in and caught him in the solar plexus.

“This ain’t my first knife fight, sucker,” Fulton snarled. “And you…” the next blow caught Kane under the chin “…ain’t that good.” The right cross sent Kane spinning against the rail of the boat where he tottered for a moment and then fell over the side.

Fulton limped over to the side of the boat and looked down at the water. “You’re right,” he said to the bubbles rising to the surface. “The bad guy should always kill the good guy when he has the chance.”

Over in the other boat, Grale also looked at the water. The police helicopter hovering overhead played its spotlight on the area around the boats. But there was no sign of Kane.

Grale dove over the side and down into the dark waters where Kane had disappeared. It was a fool’s chance, the likelihood of finding the other man in the roiling, tumbling currents below was almost nothing. And yet, call it fate, call it faith, call it what you will, the two men found each other beneath the surface. They grappled and held on-one man with only a thumb and finger on one hand but strong in his insanity-each trying to locate the other’s body with his knife.

Over and over they tumbled like socks in a dryer. Down they sank like rocks. Beneath and past the bridge. Their lungs screamed for air, but their brains focused on the death of the other.

Until at last, one knife finally found a home and sank deep into the ribs of the other, who stiffened for a moment, then sagged. The victor pushed the wounded man away and struggled to reach the surface, though in truth he had no idea which direction it was. So it was almost with surprise that he felt his hand break the surface and in the next moment sucked cool fresh air into his aching lungs.

Exhausted and too weak to do anything except float on his back with the current, he looked up to where the clouds were abandoning the sky and saw the stars. A hundred yards away, a police helicopter’s search beam drifted over the waters near the bridge. He began to kick toward the shore…and smiled.