The Green And The Gray

27

Fierenzo's hand twitched toward his shoulder holster before he remembered his gun wasn't there anymore. "Who are they?" he asked.

"Halfdan's inner circle," Jonah said. "The one in front in the blue pea coat is Bergan, his eldest son.

He's the one Jordan clobbered yesterday morning for the car he used to get the Whittiers away from Halfdan's other son, Ingvar."

"Who I see is also here," Fierenzo said, recognizing the gray-jacketed man on Bergan's left from the crumpled sketches in his pocket. "You think they know you're the ones who snatched Melantha?"

"I can't think of any other reason why Jordan would have tried to drive over Ingvar," Jonah said grimly. "And Halfdan normally doesn't have any trouble putting two and two together."

"Well, he'll just have to do his arithmetic alone," Fierenzo said, coming to a decision. Pulling out his badge wallet, he brushed past Jonah and ducked through the flap onto the rooftop. "Afternoon, gentlemen," he called to the converging circle of Grays as he held the badge up high. "What's going on?"

Bergan stopped short, his mouth twitching at the sight of the badge. The other Grays took the cue and also stopped. "Who are you?" he called back.

"Detective Sergeant Thomas Fierenzo," Fierenzo told him, waving the badge around so that the entire circle could get a look before returning it to his pocket. "You up here for a party?"

Bergan's eyes flicked past Fierenzo's shoulder. "We came to see Jonah McClung," he said. "He's a friend of ours."

"Mr. McClung hasn't got time to chat right now," Fierenzo said, making a mental note of the name.

Jonah had said that it wasn't Gray, but he'd been careful not to say what it actually was. "He and his brother Jordan have to come down to the station with me."

The lines around Bergan's eyes deepened. "Why?" he asked. "What have they done?"

"They're possible witnesses to a felony," Fierenzo said, glancing around. "Jordan? Jordan! Damn—

where's that kid gotten to? Jordan!"

"What felony?" Ingvar asked.

Fierenzo turned to face him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the other Grays put a hand up to his cheek. Calling to have Jordan brought back before the cop got suspicious, he hoped.

"Sorry?"

"What felony are Mr. McClung and Mr. Anderson witnesses to?" Ingvar amplified.

So Jordan's last name was Anderson. Halfdan's sons were just chock full of useful information.

"They may have seen a kidnapping from the park over there," he told the other, gesturing toward the edge of the roof. "I need to get their statements and have them look through some mug books."

"So neither of them is being charged with anything?"

And that was the critical question here, Fierenzo knew, at least as far as Ingvar and Bergan were concerned. A formal charge would mean fingerprints and mug shots and all the rest of the attention these people had taken such pains to avoid all these years. Faced with that possibility, they might well decide desperate action was called for.

On the other hand, not being faced with that possibility would make the temporary loss of Jonah and Jordan seem considerably less critical in comparison. "No, of course not," he assured Ingvar. "Like I said, I just want their statements." He glanced around. "Where in hell did Jordan get to?"

"Here he is," a voice called from behind him.

Fierenzo turned to see two Grays escorting a tight-lipped youth toward him. It was the first time he'd actually seen Jordan in the flesh, but like Ingvar he was the spitting image of his police sketch.

"About time," he said peevishly, gesturing the boy forward. "Come on, come on—it's freezing up here. You too, Jonah. Leave the stuff—you can come back and get it later."

Trying to act nonchalant, he marched his prisoners through the line of Grays to the roof stairway and pulled open the door, ushering them inside. "The rest of you get out of here, too," he ordered the others over his shoulder. "There are laws against hanging out on roofs without the owner's permission." He gave Jonah a nudge. "Let's go."

No one spoke until they'd reached ground level. "Where are we going?" Jordan asked as Fierenzo got his bearings and turned toward the nearest subway station.

"Back to the Two-Four to get my car," Fierenzo told him. His muscles still twinged occasionally as he walked, but he was definitely on the mend.

"And then?"

"You'll see." He cocked an eye at Jonah." 'McClung,' huh?"

Jonah shrugged. "Like I said, we've been branching out."

"That wasn't what I meant," Fierenzo said. "I was thinking about your habit of clinging to walls.

Cling—clung—McClung?"

Jonah frowned. "No," he said firmly. "My grandfather wouldn't have lowered himself to a joke that bad." He paused. "At least, I don't think so."

They caught an uptown subway at Canal and Lafayette, changed lines at Grand Central and Times Square, and were soon back on 102nd Street where Fierenzo had parked his car the previous evening.

To his mild surprise, it hadn't been towed.

"Get in," he told the others, unlocking it with the remote and getting stiffly into the driver's seat.

Jonah climbed in beside him, Jordan taking the back. "So where are we going?" Jonah asked.

"We'll start by losing the tails I'm sure Bergan and Ingvar put on us," Fierenzo said, starting the car and fastening his seat belt. "Get my spare gun out of the glove box, will you?"

"What are you going to tell your lieutenant?" Jonah asked, popping the glove box door and gingerly pulling out Fierenzo's spare Glock.

"I'm working on that," Fierenzo said, looking in the mirror. "Hang on a sec," he added as Jonah started to hand him the gun. A car-sized hole had opened up in the traffic flow; twisting the wheel, he cut into it, shifted over a lane, and made the turn north at the next block on the tail end of the yellow light. "Okay," he said, holding out his hand. Jonah gave him the gun, and he slid it into his shoulder holster. The familiar weight felt reassuring, somehow. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Jonah said. "And after we lose them?"

"We'll go to Meeting One, of course," Fierenzo told him. "I want to meet the rest of your conspiracy."

Behind him, Jordan inhaled sharply. "What conspiracy?" Jonah asked, his voice suddenly tight.

"You talked about having meetings there," Fierenzo reminded him. "That implies more than just the two of you, or even just the two of you and a set of parents. And I don't believe for a minute you and Jordan pulled this whole thing off alone. It's time I found out whose side you're actually on."

"But we can't," Jordan protested. "Jonah, tell him—"

Jonah silenced him with a gesture. "All right," he said. "But only if you can lose Halfdan's people."

"Trust me," Fierenzo assured him. "A couple of parking garages, a cab or two, maybe some new coats for you and your brother, and we'll shake them."

Jonah took a deep breath and settled back into his seat. "Okay," he said. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

Fierenzo nodded. "Yeah. Me, too."

The afternoon was starting to fade away, and Caroline had restoked the fire twice, when they finally had a visitor.

"Good afternoon," Nikolos greeted them as he stepped into the cabin between a pair of Warriors. "I wish I could say I was pleased to see you."

Caroline glanced at her husband, caught the quick twitch of his lip. Clearly, he wasn't any more surprised to see Nikolos than she was. "Likewise," Roger told the Command-Tactician. "Cozy setup you have here."

"We like it," Nikolos said, gesturing them to the couch as he eased himself into one of the two rickety cabriolet chairs. The wicker protested under his weight, but held. "Let me guess," he went on.

"It was that comment I made about pulling back to upstate New York."

"Basically," Roger confirmed as he and Caroline also sat down.

Nikolos nodded heavily. "I knew it was a mistake the minute I said it, but all I could do was hope you hadn't noticed. Dare I ask how you found this place so quickly?"

"Dare we ask where Melantha is?" Roger countered.

"I wish I knew," Nikolos said ruefully. "I certainly don't have her."

"Of course not," Roger said. "And this is just your summer retreat, right?"

"No, this is precisely what I'm sure you've already surmised," Nikolos said calmly. "Our last fallback position, prepared in the event that the Grays succeed in pushing us out of the city."

"Where you can continue the fight on your own terms?"

Nikolos shook his head. "If we're pushed back here, the war will already have been lost," he said.

"This will become little more than our final resting place, a land where our remaining people can fade back into the shadows of the hills and woods."

"Or a place where you can relax in comfort while Melantha destroys New York and the Grays?"

Caroline suggested, her throat tight.

There was a smoldering fire in Nikolos's eyes as he turned to her. "Look, Humans, it's my job to protect my people from our enemies," he bit out. "If dropping a few buildings is what it takes to accomplish that, then yes, that's exactly what I'll do."

"But only if you can persuade Melantha to cooperate," Roger said.

"I don't need Melantha," Nikolos shot back, leaning forward in his emotion, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Damian can—"

He broke off abruptly. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be our guests for awhile," he said, his voice suddenly stiff and formal as he stood up. "Accommodations are being prepared for you at the main house. The Group Commander will send for you in about an hour."

Turning his back on them, he headed for the door. "Just remember one thing," Roger called after him. "If you want to kill Grays, you're right, we probably can't stop you. But if you start wrecking buildings and killing our people, this retreat of yours won't hide you for long."

"We hid from the Others for generations," Nikolos countered, half turning to look over his shoulder at them. "And they at least knew who and what they were looking for. You really think we can't hide from a people who don't even know we exist?"

He strode out into the gathering dusk. The two Warriors followed, closing the door behind them.

"Yeah, but there you had a whole valley to hide in," Roger muttered at the door. He took a deep breath, let it out in a ragged sigh, and turned to Caroline. "Was it my imagination, or did Nikolos actually lose control there for a minute?"

"It certainly looked that way," Caroline agreed, thinking back to that suddenly cut off sentence. "Has anyone mentioned Damian before?"

"Not to me," Roger said. "I'm still trying to figure out whether or not he has Melantha. One minute he'll say something that sounds like he does, the next minute he'll say something just the opposite."

Caroline shivered. "Roger, we've got to get out of here," she said. "Get back to the city and warn someone."

"I'm open to suggestions."

She looked around the room, trying to think. The cabin was late forties or early fifties, she'd already decided. A lot of such summer hideaways had sprung up about that time throughout the Catskills, many of them of rather hasty construction. The windows would be single-paned, the walls minimally insulated if at all, the floor—

The floor.

She looked down at the floor. Standard overlay flooring, the boards with that rough and rustic look.

Getting down on her knees, she held her palm just over the floorboards. With the fire drawing air from the rest of the cabin... "Do you feel air coming through the floor?" she asked.

Roger got down beside her, licking a finger and holding it over one of the larger cracks between boards. "I think so," he said after a moment. "But that fire's drawing in a lot of air. It could be a leak from somewhere else."

"I don't think there's any subflooring here, Roger," she said. "Just these boards nailed to the joists, with a crawl space underneath."

"No slab?"

"Wasn't required back then for this type of building," she told him. "And I remember seeing skirting boards on the outside at ground level as we were coming in. It's a crawl space, all right."

Roger tapped the board thoughtfully. "And if we can get through, then we can get out."

For a long moment they looked at each other. "There's still the guards outside," she reminded him.

"Let's worry about that when we get there," Roger said. "How do we start?"

"Go see if there's anything we can use to pull nails," she said, straightening up again. "Don't forget to check the kitchen drawers. I'll look for a place to—"

She gave a strained chuckle. "What?" he demanded.

"I almost said I'd look for a place to dig," she said. "Like we were on Treasure Island or something."

"More like a prisoner-of-war camp," he pointed out, heading for the kitchen. "I'll see what I can find."

By the time he returned, she'd located their best bet. "The previous occupants did a good job of cleaning it out," he told her, dumping a double handful of junk onto the couch. "But this potato peeler might get a couple of the nails started before it gives out."

"Maybe even more than a couple," Caroline agreed, looking over the rest of his loot. Half a hinge, a bent drill bit, a piece of an egg beater, and a power cord like the one on her mother's old waffle iron.

"And for actually prying up the boards once the nails are out, I thought we could use that sparkblocking thingy," he added.

"It's called a fender," Caroline identified it, eyeing the low metal barrier in front of the fireplace.

"Yes, that might work."

"So that's our tool kit," he concluded. "Where's our spot?"

"Right here," Caroline said, pointing to the corner she was standing in. "You see the stains on the ceiling? That's from rain or snow leakage. It's partially rotted the boards here—you can feel how soft it is compared to the rest of the floor."

He pressed a foot down onto the spot. "Looks good," he agreed. Picking up the potato peeler, he knelt down and got to work.

Caroline picked up the broken hinge, her stomach twisting inside her. They could certainly get out of the cabin—she was sure of that now. But after they did...

She stepped to the other end of the board he was working on. Clearly, Roger hadn't thought it all the way through yet. Better not to distract him.

Getting down on her knees, she started digging into the softened wood.

"What do you mean, the car's gone?" Powell demanded into the phone. "I left orders for it to be watched."

"There was a glitch in the stakeout schedule," Smith said, sounding as frustrated as Powell felt. "By the time I realized that, it was too late. But I found a newsstand guy who saw them get in and drive off."

"But it was Fierenzo?" Powell asked, some of the tension in his chest easing a little. Whatever else was going on, his partner was still alive.

"The news guy identified his photo," Smith confirmed. "The others were two males: one mid-teens, who got in back, the other mid-twenties, who got into the front passenger seat. He described them as both being dark-haired and kind of squat." He paused. "He also said that as the car pulled away, he saw the older one holding a gun."

The decreasing pressure in Powell's chest reversed itself. So instead of a murder, they now had a kidnapping. "Get your guy to the station," he ordered. "And get Carstairs and his sketch pad down there."

"Carstairs won't be happy about being pulled in on a Sunday," Smith warned. "Especially not after coming in on Saturday, too."

"Tell him I'll buy him dinner," Powell growled. "Then put out an APB on Fierenzo's car and get a canvass going to see if you can find someone in the neighborhood who can fill in more of the picture. And don't let your witness walk until I get there."

"I won't," Smith promised. "See you."

Powell hung up the handset, and for a couple of seconds he glared blackly down at it. What the hell was happening out there, anyway?

"Jon?"

Powell looked up to see his wife Sandy standing in the doorway. "Sorry, honey, but I've got to go back in," he said with a sigh, reaching down and retrieving his shoes.

"Tommy?"

He nodded. "At least now it sounds like he's alive. Kidnapped, but alive."

"Be careful," Sandy said quietly. "If someone doesn't want him walking around, they might not want his partner doing it, either."

"Hey, don't worry," he assured her, pulling on his coat and turning to give her a quick but serious hug. "We're not on any cases right now that anybody would kill for."

"Sure," she said, clinging to the hug a bit longer than usual. "Just be careful."

"I will," he promised, kissing her. "I'll call if I'm going to be later than midnight."

His last image as he left the apartment was of her standing in the middle of the room watching him go. A cop's wife, with all the pain and hope and determination that came with that job.

The blood of thousands of New Yorkers, the mysterious Cyril had said. Could Fierenzo have been marked to be the first of those thousands?

Was Powell himself marked to be the second?