Deluge

8

Two Days Earlier

Manhattan

CONNOR DRANK HIS DRAFT BEER and smiled at the foam.

What had he come to? Sitting in the middle of the morning nursing a beer in a First Avenue bar while he waited for a frightened jack rabbit to come skulking in. The man he was waiting for would have to be urged, nudged, wheedled into what Connor planned, but he was reasonably sure he could do it. Connor had done his homework.

Once, both long ago and not that long ago, Connor had commanded respect. He was a bloody bombing genius, first for the IRA and then for anyone who would pay for his expertise and daring. But fewer and fewer wanted his artistry. There were bombers and bomb makers all over the globe blowing everything up, including themselves. And these amateurs were called masterminds. There had been a time when if a group with a grievance had wanted something blown up, Connor was their boy. Only Connor hadn't been a boy for a long time and he'd had to fall back on his other profession, which paid him only slightly better in the long run than explosives.

Now he sat at a bar on a rainy morning, the only customer in a bar that still smelled of cigars, cigarettes and burnt burgers from the night before.

The Wheel and Wagon pub back home had always smelled of wax and whiskey and good beer and stout in the morning. At The Wheel, you could always expect to see someone you knew, not to mention the occasional visit by the police. Connor knew the police. Some of them even sat down with Conor to drink a pint and talk about how they were going to put Connor away again someday, put him away for good.

They never had, although he had almost put himself away two or three times. Had he stayed back home and nursed drinks and searched for new tales to tell at The Wheel, he could have counted on a relatively long life. But there was no longer a living to be made in Dublin. So Connor had packed one night and left a note for his brother. And he was gone.

Connor could have made a good living working for terrorists who seemed to be everywhere but the North and South Poles. And they would, he had no doubt, be up and down there too when the ice caps melted and the polar bears roamed down to Kansas. But Connor would not work for crazy people, and terrorists were crazy people. You couldn't trust crazy people with crazy eyes who didn't care who they killed. In Connor's book, you warned and cleared before you blew a place up. If you happened to kill, you regretted it and said a prayer for the dead and your own soul and a "God Bless Ireland." Then you put it aside. Nothing you could do about it when it was done. You put it aside and engaged in banter with friends old and new and acquaintances.

"Another?"

The bartender, a young man with a dark look that said he had known what it was like behind other bars, stood near him.

"Why not?" said Connor.

The bartender nodded and moved off to get a second beer for his only customer on a less than promising morning.

Reduced, Connor thought. Reduced to haggling with a drug dealer named DJ Riggs for a handful of detonators and an Afghan fence named Hamid for a half dozen sticks of badly stored and wrapped dynamite.

The door opened behind Connor. He heard the rain beating down behind whoever had entered. He felt a slight whoosh of warm wind on his back. The door closed. Connor didn't turn. The bartender placed a fresh mug before him. The foam waterfalled out and down the rim and Connor drank.

Someone sat next to him. He could smell the musk of rain on the man, but he did not look. There was a role to play. Connor had played it many times before.

"Are you…?" the man at his side said.

"That depends," said Connor, "on who you're looking for. Since I'm the only one in here besides the dapper barkeep, it's likely I'm the one you seek."

With that Connor turned his head and looked at the man at his side. The man was wet and shivering, though the rain was warm. The man was about Connor's age but he was lean, wore an ill-fitting toupee and lacked fortitude.

"I just want to be sure," the man said, looking at the bartender who was on the phone, his back turned.

"The name to conjure by is Terrence Williams," said Connor. "Though I doubt if that's his real name. He's less a Terrence than a Slobodon. You agree with that assessment?"

"I don't know," said the man who bore a look that told Connor he was wondering what he had gotten into. "It's got to look like an accident."

"I know my business," said Connor, suddenly serious and sober. "Twenty-five thousand plus expenses."

"Expenses?"

Connor shook his head and said, "My room and board and the means of making and putting into effect the device. And how do I know this isn't some kind of trap, a sting? That figures into the expense, the risk factor. You need to make it clearer, show me evidence that you are who you say you are."

The man grappled for his wallet. It was working. Connor had taken the initiative, questioned the mark before the mark could question him. The bartender approached.

"My friend will have the same," Connor said, tapping his mug.

The bartender nodded and walked away.

The man finally wrestled the wallet out of his pocket.

Connor took it from his hand and opened it. Driver's license. Credit cards. Automobile insurance card. Blue Cross Blue Shield card. Savings and loan card. Eighty-four dollars and a tarnished Susan B. Anthony dollar coin tucked behind a library card.

Connor held up the coin.

"Good luck?"

"I don't know. I just carry it."

Connor handed the coin and wallet back to the man.

"How do we-?"

"How do I," Connor corrected. "I've looked at the place. Not a great challenge. Half the money plus three thousand for expenses upfront. The rest when the festivities are over."

"Cash?"

Connor put a hand on the man's shoulder and said, "What am I going to do with a bloody check?"

"I'll make it out to cash."

"And I'll have to endorse it. Stop the shuffle and come up with the cash or we part our ways and say no more, much to the loss of both vendor and vendee."

"When will you do it?"

"No point in waiting for the full moon or a bright sun," said Connor. "The rain looks as if it will be with us for a while. Two days?"

"Two days," the man repeated. "Yes."

"I think I'll sit right here, dry and in the good company of our loquacious innkeeper while you round up the cash and return."

"How do I know-?"

"My reputation," said Connor, leaning into the man's face, his voice menacing. "My pride. You sense them?"

"Yes," said the man.

"Good," said Connor, sitting back, smiling and clapping his hands together. "Now if you would go out into this gray and wet day and return with my payment, I'll buy you a drink."

"I don't drink," the man said. "I'm a bartender, remember?"

"There's a law in the colonies against bartenders drinking? I wonder what the vintner drinks that's half so good as what he sells. Omar Khayyam or thereabouts."

"I have a liver disease," said the man.

"Well-earned by a dissolute life, I hope?" said Connor.

"No, a blood transfusion."

"No offense, dear patron, but you are beginning to depress me. Into the dark and damp day with you."

The man got off the stool, paused for a second or two, clearly wondering if he should or could change his mind.

"Indecision is a bore," said Connor. "Solace is a beer."

The man left.

"You got something a man can eat? Something that won't kill him?" Connor asked the bartender.

"Ham sandwich," said the bartender. "Bread's fresh."

"One of those with mustard," said Connor. "And some pretzels or salted nuts would be welcome."

The bartender nodded.

The job promised to be quick and easy. No one hurt. Pack up. Collect the rest of the payment. Head for JFK with a ticket for Toronto. And then to Australia to wait for the really big payoff.

Connor smiled and promised he would take care of the pesky tooth on the bottom in the back that had plagued him for months.

Quick and easy. Only it wouldn't be quick and easy.

It would go wrong, decidedly, disastrously, deadly wrong.

Two Months Earlier

Manhattan

It wasn't reasonable to expect a normal man with normal impulses to ignore them, the girls. They knew. He knew. It wasn't a matter of self control.

Alvin Havel had, for five years, pretended that the girls, their hair washed and shimmering, their breasts bobbing, their faces clean and clear and their legs…

Alvin had pretended, had worked hard at being a good teacher, making chemistry interesting, fun. He had succeeded.

The students, rich and confident, or pretending to be, talked of homes in the city and in Vermont or Connecticut or the Bahamas where they had their own Lexus or BMW or Mercedes. They talked of trips to Paris or Tokyo or Sydney.

Summers were supposed to be recovery time for teachers, a perk for having chosen a profession that precluded a decent mortgage. Alvin spent his summers teaching. If the students didn't want to be in school during the academic year, they wanted to be there even less in the summer. Summer school was punishment. Sullen faces, arms folded across chests, drowsy eyes. And the girls. The summer didn't give him a break. He had to see them hot and tanned.

Most of them were smart. Some of them were brilliant. A few of them were interested in chemistry.

The morning had been frost layered, a crisp chill. Then the school had been too warm, the heat turned up. Staying awake for students and teachers was a challenge.

He had given them a quiz. It was too warm in the room to think of real teaching. A quiz would keep them busy for twenty minutes. Then they'd discuss the quiz and class would be over.

She had come up to him with a question. The other students watched without looking. She had whispered her question, her mouth almost touching his ear. He could smell her hair. Her blue silk blouse was unbuttoned at the top and he had nowhere to look but at her breasts.

He answered her question and asked her if he could see her after class. He had a free period. She had lunch. She said yes.

After class when the others were gone, she stood in front of his desk, head cocked to one side, a knowing smile on her lips.

Alvin closed the classroom door and faced her. He tried to hide his trembling.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked.

"No," he said, knowing that what he was about to do, if he was not careful, could ruin his life.

"Then what?" she asked.

"I'd like your help," he said.

"My help?"

He walked toward her, a pensive look on his face.

"An experiment I'd like to conduct. If it works out, I want to write a paper."

"Publish or perish," she said as he moved in front of her.

"Yes," he said.

She took a step back as he moved forward.

"And what do you want me to do?" she asked.

"I've got to balance six different elements. I need someone coordinated to keep track of each element, see that nothing is going wrong."

He was looking into her eyes. She met his gaze.

"Let me see your hands," he said.

"My hands?"

"Hands, fingers," he said. "I want to be sure they're clean enough for the job."

The look on her face was a combination of skepticism and amusement. She held out a hand. God, she looked beautiful. What the hell was he doing?

He took her hand and ran his thumb along the palm.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

She smiled. It was midmorning. He was flirting. She was amused. Mr. Havel was cute. Mr. Havel was safe.

"Are you interested?" he asked.

His mouth was dry.

"Interested?"

"In the experiment."

"I don't know," she said. "I don't have much time."

"You think about it," he said. "If you like, you can take a look at what I've assembled so far. It might help you make up your mind."

She shrugged.

"Back in the storeroom," he said, guiding her to the back of the classroom.

He slid the white board over and stepped behind her into the room.

This was crazy. He should stop. Not too late. In a few minutes, no, a few seconds, he could have a screaming girl in front of him. His life, his career, could be over.

"Where?" she asked when he turned on the light.

He touched her shoulder. She turned to face him. He closed the sliding door.

She wasn't afraid. She was interested, curious. A kiss in the closet. A teacher who would owe her. She didn't intend to use it against him, but it would be fun just knowing she could and knowing that he knew.

He kissed her. He smelled her hair, felt her breasts against his chest. Her mouth was open.

And as she pulled back gently with both hands on his chest, she thought that would be the end of it. She touched his cheek and reached for the door.

Alvin grabbed her arm, turned her and kissed her again. This time she didn't respond. She didn't fight him, but she didn't respond.

Then he put a hand under her blouse and she said, "Hey, no."

He pushed her back against the wall. He didn't care what would happen. Wrong and right didn't matter. He whispered, "No one can hear. I want you to enjoy it. I don't want to hurt you."

She was afraid now, very afraid. He was bigger than she was, stronger than she would have guessed and he looked crazy, no longer the smiling, helpful, funny Mr. Havel.

She didn't fight. She didn't want to make him angry. All she wanted was to get out of there. It wasn't as if she were a virgin. She told herself that made a difference, didn't really believe it. She thought about water, waves, imagined the sound of waves against the shore. She just wanted it to be over.

And when it was he got off of her and said, "Are you all right?"

The Mr. Havel she knew had returned.

He helped her up. She didn't answer. She didn't look at him. The unasked question was in the air. Would she tell? She decided that she wouldn't give him the answer.

He would have to wait and suffer. If she wanted to, she could go into the hall now, screaming, sobbing, but she didn't. She knew she couldn't wait long. She adjusted her skirt and blouse. She started to sob and tried to stop, not wanting him to see her weakness.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't…"

She slid the storeroom door open and stepped into the classroom. Alvin stepped out behind her.

"Are you…?" he began, but she had gathered her books and, biting her lower lip, hurried to the classroom door and then out into the corridor alive with students moving, talking, laughing, having no idea of what had happened.

She did not look back at Alvin Havel. She was already planning.

She would kill him. Not today. Not this week. He had to suffer, had to be afraid every time he looked at her.

She would kill him. She might need help. She knew where to get it.

She would kill him. She didn't have to expose herself, be humiliated by police, by probing hospital hands. She wouldn't have to deal with her parents' anger and anguish.

She would kill him. And two months later she did.

Two Years Earlier

Hempstead, Long Island

Adam was ashamed. Adam was afraid. Adam did not want to go to the pet shop where he worked after school and on Saturdays. Adam loved animals. He had been grateful when his father's old friend Larry Beckerman had offered him the job. He wasn't grateful anymore.

Three weeks ago, after Adam had been working at the pet shop for two months, Mr. Beckerman had told him he needed help in the storeroom. A new shipment of cages had come in and had to be priced, labeled and put on shelves. It was a slow Tuesday night.

Adam was a small fifteen-year-old. Larry Beckerman was a tall, broad, muscular forty-eight-year-old father of three boys.

It began with Beckerman touching Adam's hand as he held up a cage to be labeled. Minutes later, when he was lifting a large cage, Beckerman reached over Adam's shoulder and ran a hand down his chest before reaching out to help with the cage.

Then, when Adam was washing his hands in the small washroom next to the storeroom, Beckerman came in, started to reach for a towel past Adam's face and then suddenly grabbed, both arms around Adam's chest. Adam tried to get away.

"It's going to happen no matter what you do," Beckerman whispered. "I won't hurt you."

Beckerman had kissed his neck. Adam smelled something on Beckerman's breath that might have been that morning's breakfast bacon.

"Don't scream," Beckerman said. "No one can hear you."

The caged animals chattered, mewed, crackled, cried and barked.

One of Beckerman's sons, Nick, was Adam's age. They had classes together, but they weren't friends. Nick was a jock like his two brothers. Adam wasn't quite a nerd, but he wasn't varsity material.

"Tell anyone about this and I call you a liar," said Beckerman. "I don't plan on doing anything that will leave evidence. Take it easy. Enjoy it."

Beckerman's hand slipped down between Adam's legs. Adam, through his fear and hyperventilation, felt something stir. And that was the beginning. He was drenched in sweat, fear and shame.

When it was over, Adam knew he couldn't tell anyone what Beckerman had done to him and what he had been forced to do to Beckerman, an old family friend, his father's college roommate.

Adam could have quit the pet shop, could have said he had too much schoolwork to do, that he was afraid his grades would drop. He could have, but Beckerman told him he had better not. He could have told his parents, written to his brother, told the police. But what if they believed him? Everyone would know what he had done to Beckerman. He would be be Adam the Queer, Adam the Queen. He would hear it, would know it by how everyone looked at him even if they didn't say it.

He took solace in the animals, the puppies and kittens, the cockatoo who said, "So's your old man," "Hold your horses," and "GI Jive."

And dutifully, maybe once a week- he never knew when it would happen- Beckerman would call him into the storeroom. Saturdays were safe from Beckerman. Too busy. But weekdays were different.

And then, one Tuesday, summoned to the storeroom, told to get on his knees, Adam took hold of Beckerman's hand and bit, bit hard as Beckerman, pants down around his ankles, struggled to keep from falling, screaming in sudden agony.

Adam tasted blood. Beckerman tripped.

"No more," Adam said.

"Get out," Beckerman had answered, lying on his back, his head resting against a small burlap sack of birdseed.

Adam had left. He told no one. Said he had quit. He dreaded the possibility of seeing Beckerman again, or anyone in Beckerman's family. But it was more than a possibility. Beckerman and Adam's father remained friends. Beckerman said he had been bitten by the cockatoo.

Adam grew quiet, too quiet, and distant. His parents were concerned. They said they wanted him to see a counselor. He said he was fine and made an effort to look and act fine. The effort was draining, the memories overwhelming.

Four weeks after he had bitten the hand that abused him, Adam wrote a letter to his brother. He could have emailed, but the email would have existed in cyberspace forever. He asked his brother to destroy the letter after he read it. Adam apologized for writing the letter, but he had to tell someone.

A month after he mailed the letter there was still no answer. One night Adam said good night to his mother and father, straightened his bookcases, cleaned up the clutter in his room, and made sure the blanket on his bed was neat and unwrinkled. Then he showered, put on a clean shirt, underwear and pants and hanged himself from a crossbeam in his room.