Crime & Counterpoint (24 page)

Zach saw her go down. His world went down with her.

Approaching one of the two suited guns from behind, Zach hammered the grip of his Glock down hard onto the man’s skull with brute force. Despite the hysterical screams of people, the cascades of echoing footsteps, and blaring of a subway announcement, he heard the bone chilling crack and then saw the body go limp.

He let the man drop to the platform, gun lose in his dead grasp.

Another gunman, whom Zach had just shot in self-defense, was lying somewhere in a pool of stagnant water.

Amidst the compounding cacophony of floundering, frantic passengers exiting another train behind him, his ears latched onto the faint screech coming from the left end of the tunnel in front of him. And alien fear gripped him.

God, no.

Running to the end of the platform, he jumped down. A sharp surge of pain gutted through his left knee. The ACL again. He cursed his old gridiron injury and expunged an angry cry.

A train. He could feel its vibrations. It was no more than two hundred feet away.

Quickly, he hobbled to her, pushing through the pain.

He beheld the terror on her face. It mirrored his own. At first, he thought she must have broken something, but then he saw it. Her coat had hooked onto the second rail.

“I can’t move,” she screamed.

“Take it off!”

Her frozen fingers fumbled with the buttons.

The silver serpent blared at them to move. Brakes screeched. There wasn’t enough track for it to stop before it would hit them!

Finally, in one powerful motion, Zach ripped the coat open and grabbed her body. He pulled her to her feet, her arms coming out of the white wool.

The train’s angry glare struck them with the force of a thousand spotlights.

Zach dragged her to the furthest end of the platform where the ladder was. He almost pushed her in front of him, but knowing he would climb faster than she, he rushed up.

The platform quaked with the arriving train. It was nearly upon them!

Heart drilling through his chest, Zach leaned over and pulled her up so she wouldn’t have to wrangle the ladder rungs. His muscles strained as he hoisted her light frame on top of him just as the train screamed by, destroying her left-for-dead coat.

But, a shadow eclipsed them where they lay on the platform. He didn’t even have a chance to breathe before a gun filled his vision. Aimed at Shelley.

Reacting on instinct, Zach pushed her to the side behind a wide column, rolled to his feet, and fired his 9mm–

BANG!

The bullet slugged into the man’s sternum. As the shot echoed through the underground, Zach fully processed his target – a cop.

The NYPD officer lost his balance, fell off the platform, and hit all 25,000 volts of the third rail.

Zach gawped, disbelieving at what he’d just done. He doubted anyone had seen the hit. However, he knew there were concealed cameras everywhere. In pipes. On the walls. Electrical conduits. No way for him to hide the deed.

He tore his gaze away from the dead cop as another train blustered through, fanning him with cold and hot air. He noticed Shelley flinch though she kept her eyes unwaveringly focused on the spot where the officer had fallen. But all that could be seen now was silver speeding by. 

He scanned the cement grey, fluorescent-lit environs. People moved en masse towards the stairs, trying to get above ground, thinking there was a mad man with a gun. If Kazanov had back-up coming, he didn’t want Shelley to be anywhere in the vicinity. In which case…

He went to the girl; she was curled up against the pillar, shivering. Hair coming out of the barrettes, mascara trickling, smudges on her face, dress crushed though not torn. The necklace was still in place, somehow; diamond glinting like a real tear. A trampled rose.

He stripped off his suit jacket. “Here put this on,” he ordered, pulling her to her feet. He helped her don the Armani, leaving her long identifiable locks tucked inside. Then, he produced his handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. “Wipe your face and try to act natural.” Taking her elbow, he led them towards the next platform. His knee painfully protested the recent mistreatment, throbbing, impeding his gait.

Suddenly, his hackles pricked. His steely eyes searched the thinning throng, and he found three men in black leather jackets coming down the stairs, towards the platforms, working against the fleeing crowd. Their heads swiveled this way and that, looking everywhere.

As if the Manhattan Transit Authority wanted them to survive, another train pumped down a tunnel two platforms away. Passengers, who had no idea of what just happened, filed out of the cars, and the men’s attention diverted.

“Move,” he whispered fiercely to Shelley, gripping her arm and herding her towards the ‘A’ train.

They slipped through the first set of doors in the very last car. But he caught the reflection of the men. They were coming.

The car was empty except for him and Shelley. Less than ideal.

He didn’t say anything to her, however; she looked ready to either faint or bolt. “Here. Sit down,” he quietly commanded, steering her towards a row by the windows. He perched next to her, knee screaming as he forced it to bend. But the pain receded to the backdrop.

Peering over his shoulder through the window, he could see down the platform. The men entered a car several down from theirs.

Leaning forward, Zach peered through the doors that adjoined the cars; he knew they’d end up coming this way soon enough.

The doors closed. The train surged forward. He surged with it.

They were all locked in for the ride.

Zach’s stomach filled with lead. His throat tightened, keeping all his fears and struggles at bay. “Listen. I need you to stay here, okay?” She didn’t answer. “Shelley, look at me.”

She did.

He grimaced at the scared little girl he beheld. Inwardly, he cursed himself for everything he’d done to pull her into his world. But regardless, she was stuck. Stuck with him.

He gentled, peering into her eyes. “It’s gonna be okay,” he soothed. “Just sit tight.”

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded in a barely audible voice.

He forced a jaunty smile which didn’t hide the disturbing fire in his gaze. He touched her stained cheek. “I promise. I’ll be right back.”

The bumpy, speeding train pitched sharply as he stood. He hit the vertical metal bar by the doors, bruising his shoulder. But he emitted no sound. A glance through to the next car over told him that the three men were about to reach it.

He stepped through the doors as they parted for him, hoping to cut them off. He readied his gun and steeled his soul because nothing felt right in his overworked body.

There was only one passenger. A sleeping drunk – sprawled out with half his body hanging off a seat, and a definite odor circulating about him.

The doors at the opposite end of the car opened. The men had arrived.

Zach played offense – because he had no choice, because if he hesitated he would be dead, because if he didn’t leave this train alive
Shelley
would die.

Sweat glistening across his brow, he raised his Glock and squeezed the trigger straight back, anticipating the recoil.

But the electric beast picked that moment to lurch roughly, and his shot ricocheted off a railing. The men scattered, drawing their weapons quickly. Fortunately, the nauseating undulations impeded their return volley.

Zach dropped behind a set of two-seaters just as four bullets came his way. They hit nothing except the chair and the bullet-proof window.

Body aching like it was on fire, Zach rested his barrel on the top of the seat in front of him and ejected several spits, accurately extinguishing two of the three men.

They fell to the ground, one first then the other.

Unfortunately, he had run out of bullets.

The drunk was still asleep.

Ping-ping-ping!

Zach stayed down until the gunfire stopped. Out of bullets too. Screaming at himself to move, he sprang from his defensive position, using all the power he had left.

The last man with several white scars bisecting his face charged. Zach’s palm shot out and thrust into his bearded chin, throwing the man’s head backwards. Grabbing his arm, he twisted, pushing against the natural range of motion, until the man had to turn around or have his arm broken.

A string of Slavic curses rented the air.

Zach’s left hand gripped a fist full of short brown hair and smashed the man’s head against a subway pole. Repeatedly. He felt skull contact the metal, and his insides wrenched, teeth clenching ‘til he heard them click.

His features distorted, darkening to red.

Even when the man’s weight went limp, Zach continued until he was sure the man was dead. In the elevator it hadn’t mattered, but here. Now.

Sick to his spirit, he let the guy drop to the floor, blood streaming out of a fissure in his forehead. Stomach cramping, Zach gripped the railing for stability; thunder rolled and crashed in his head. The noise and voices deafened. Fighting the onslaught, he staggered over to the men he’d shot.

One still convulsed, eyes rolling in the back of his head, lids fluttering, mouth moving, uttering inaudible words.

Zach’s breath hitched. He bent and swiped up the fallen man’s gun – a Sig Sauer P226 which was just out of reach. Wishing with every fiber of his being that it didn’t have to be this way, he aimed the barrel downwards.

“Who sent you?” he asked, not even recognizing his own voice. Receiving no response, Zach crouched on his haunches and dug the barrel into the man’s temple. “I won’t ask again.”

Suddenly, the man’s eyes snapped into focus and stared at Zach – flickering, cloudy but coherent. “You can’t protect her forever,” he said, words hoarse but lucid. “Kazanov knows.” He coughed up blood, it dribbled off the edge of his lips. “She’s dead. And so are you.”

A heat of many colors exploded through Zach’s veins. But before he could make his choice, the man lifted his hand and pulled the trigger for him.

Dead.

Blood and brain matter shot out and splattered all over the right side of the car beneath the seats. Red fountained from the sides of his mouth, pooling on the floor.

The hand went limp. His head rolled to the side, eyes wide open as the train rocked him into the hereafter.

Numb yet buzzing through his legs down to his toes, Zach dropped the Sig, stood, and stumbled back the way he came, shaking and feeling sick.

The door wheezed open, and the gun in his hand vanished. He attempted to seem indifferent as he approached her. Still seated exactly where he’d left her, she didn’t even look his way as he neared. He was glad of it. He didn’t think he could take her eyes again.

On the verge of a panic attack, he sat down next to her. “Hey,” he said, sounding relaxed though in his mind he was on the edge of that waterfall again, but the drop was steeper, and if he went over, he felt like he would die.

She didn’t respond.

He put his arm around the back of her seat and nudged her towards him, seemingly offering her support, but in actuality, he needed her badly. Tears stung his eyes. He might as well have been in a cold, black dungeon with fetid pools of water and disease-ridden rats crawling over him.

But as if she sensed his emotional downturn and the spreading venom, she slipped her hand out of the jacket and laid it against his heart as her head settled on his shoulder.

He could feel every one of her slender fingers through his shirt. They were frigid. Like a powerful drug, the thought that she needed him helped to ease him away from the precipice. He took her hand and held it tightly, willing his warmth – whatever he possessed – to saturate her.

The man’s chilling words came back to him, but he told himself he didn’t need to protect her forever. Just until the madness came to an end.

That was the deal.

But they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Somehow they’d made it.

Zach urged her into his neglected apartment. She still had his suit jacket on, not that it was doing much. Cheeks still bearing signs of smudged mascara, lips and nose reddened from the cold, she turned her head and studied the dim environs – his native surroundings.

“Here. Sit down,” he said, leading her to his beaten leather sofa. “Try to relax.”

But she didn’t sit. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t stop trembling.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.

Shelley stared blankly at him, tongue suspended in her mouth, lips dry and unable to move. She couldn’t even see the blue eyes gazing back at her.

Knowing she was in shock, he took her frigid hand and warmed it, forcing her to sit with him. The comforting gesture beckoned her from the cold grasp of despair. She blinked, and her chest lifted slightly.

“I was just leaving the club.” She choked on a sob. “I didn’t see anything. But they followed me.”

“Who followed you?”

She shook her head. “It almost hit me. I thought I died.”

He took her face and forced her to look at him. “Did you see who followed you, Shelley?”

“And there was that girl. The one with Ron. At the reception.” Her gaze flicked to him briefly. “She was there. With another man.”

He didn’t want to tell her he knew this already, much less why. Seemed like the wrong thing to admit less than an hour after she’d nearly met her end.

She suddenly straightened and gripped his arm. “Did you hear that?” she asked, peering around anxiously. But then, she shook her head in self-deprecation, tears forming. “I’m sorry, Zach. I’m so sorry. I just can’t stop seeing the train. The men. The guns. You.”

He stared at her, at her hands digging into his flesh. Deliberating. “You’re going to have to stay here tonight.”

To his surprise, she didn’t argue. He doubted she’d even heard.

Her gaze focused on the coffee table with the numerous ring stains. For some reason, he felt self-conscious. Exposed.

Bracing himself, he stood up. “Why don’t you take a shower?” he asked, eager to get her into the only clean part of his apartment. “I’ll show you the bathroom.”

Gingerly, she shifted. He saw the wince pass over her face and knew she probably hurt way more than he did. Physically, at least. She’d fallen on the hard track, after all. It was a miracle she didn’t break anything.

Putting a hand on her arm, he helped her up and urged her along. He led her, jacket, heels, and all through the living room, his bedroom, and into the bathroom, where he flicked on the light switch. Relatively sparkling glass, sheening marble, mildew-free grout.

He breathed easier, the clean environs loosening the noose around his conscience.

Leaving her in there, he reentered his room, which wasn’t messy per se but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d vacuumed the carpet. Realizing he’d have to find something for her to wear, he yanked open dresser drawers, rifling through a disparate assortment of unorganized clothing. Underwear swimming with t-shirts and crumpled Henleys and a Giants jersey he’d never worn. But after some rummaging, he settled on an NYPD T-shirt and some drawstring, flannel pajama bottoms. He hoped these items would accommodate her hourglass body.

The thought made him feverish, and he quickly unbuttoned the white Van Heusen she’d gotten him. Unblemished – somehow.

He tossed it into a half-filled laundry basket anyway and pulled a navy blue, cotton tee over his head. Adjusting it over his aching torso, he took a breath, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders a few times as the cool material settled into his veins. There. Better.

Returning to the bathroom, he found that she’d at least taken off her shoes. A good sign. He spared the Cinderella footwear a cursory glance. Nine hours of non-stop wear and trauma and they still looked ballroom-ready. “Your feet must hurt. A hot shower will help.” From the linen closet behind the door, he pulled out a worn albeit fresh towel and set it down with the clothes on the vanity. “They’re not gonna fit, but it’ll have to do.”

She eyed them with surprise, blinking. “Thank you,” she said meekly.

He could tell she was cold. Nevertheless, he helped her off with his suit jacket. She shivered and clutched at her bare arms. It was then he noticed her hair was matted and sticky against her upper back.

Remaining calm, he slowly pulled aside her hair, watching her facial reaction in the mirror. She grimaced and her shoulders hunched. Something had superficially cut into her skin just above her left shoulder blade. It was bloody but not bleeding. Her coat might’ve saved her from the worst of it.

“When you’re done, let me know,” he said, releasing her hair. “I’ll get this cleaned up.” Before she could frame a reply, he trekked out and started straightening his entire apartment.

“This whole situation’s a huge, fucking mess,” Rick said, drawing his bow across a one-string violin. “Your dad and Hightower are giving us specifics: names, dates, fraudulent accounts, wire transfers dates. It’s incredible, which just makes me wonder what the hell Cervenka’s really trying to accomplish here. If he just wants to hang Kazanov and his crew, he’s already tied the knot pretty good. But he’s gotta be gaining something to spoon-feed you so much. Or else why–”

“I don’t care what his ulterior motive is right now, Rick,” Zach cut in, shouldering his cell while furiously spreading new sheets upon his old king-sized bed. He was only vaguely aware of his physical actions – the dusting, the scrubbing, the compulsive straightening. His mind mostly focused on the unpleasant conversation. “I just want to know what the hell I’m supposed to do about the subway incident. I can’t come in right now.”

“No, no. Chief says to lay low for now. Carter’s still dealing with the whole Plaza episode so he’s tied up. Meanwhile, I don’t know how we’re gonna explain this to the G’s. They showed up here not too long ago, asking for you. And I hate to spoil your fantastic day, but it’s Bennet… again.”

Zach bared down, grinding his molars.
Joe Bennet
. The senior special agent likely couldn’t wait to stab Zach with the needle of the Empire State Building – the model, that is, he kept on his office desk at FBI headquarters.

“You know he’s got it out for you, Zach. And I don’t know, man, after this train thing… That cop was a legit officer from 33rd.”

Zach chucked the rag he was using. “And what was a cop from thirty-third doing in twenty-eighth?”

“So what? You rarely stick to your block of Manhattan.”

“Dammit!” Zach’s fist was quick to tighten despite his fatigue. He brought it down heavily upon the dresser. Glancing at the bathroom door and the sliver of light underneath, he checked his voice and reined in his temperature. “What would you have done, Rick? If you’re so damn smart, what would you
do
in my position?”

“Which position? Kinda tough to keep ‘em all straight.”

Zach’s brows drew tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

There was a moment before Rick said, “Agh, never mind. You did what you had to do, I’m sure.”

Rick’s forced nonchalance sent mortified heat spiraling to the base of his stomach. Nausea piqued his throbbing head as the shower drummed in the background.

“Look,” Rick continued. “If I see Carter, I’ll let him know what happened. Just, uh, try to take it easy. We’ll deal with whatever shit rains in the morning, okay?”

Rick’s genuine concern pinched Zach’s conscience, and he muttered a half-baked response that wasn’t anywhere close to grateful.

By the time he hung up, Zach felt threadbare to his marrow. One more thing tonight and Shelley wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from the worn fibers of the rug.

Zach swallowed and went straight to the kitchen for a case of Dos Equis he had in the barren fridge and some Jack Daniels. He drained the first bottle of beer like it was nothing, attempting to salvage the remnants of his life. But it tasted wrong.

Before he could start on his second, he thought he heard Shelley’s tentative summons. Barely. The overlapping ghosts jabbering in his head ceased, and grateful for the distraction, he set the bottle upon the counter and headed back to his dark room.

He rapped lightly on the bathroom pane. “Shelley? Did you call?” He put his ear up to the door. She muttered something, but it was unintelligible over the rushing of the open faucet.

So he entered. He found her standing over the sink, back to him, slightly bent, scrubbing at the stains from her fuchsia designer dress. He saw her reflection in the foggy mirror. Distressed. Coming apart.

She’d wrapped the towel around herself demurely enough, but it left her tanned legs, neck, shoulders, and arms uncovered. Water darkened her richly-colored hair and plastered it to her skin and face, emphasizing her high cheekbones, haunting eyes, and moist lips. His body ached as his pulse began to double-time.

After a short-lived debate, he opened the door fully and stepped inside, immersing himself in the aromatic, steamy environs. His soap, his shampoo, but it all smelled like her.

Attempting to distract himself, he asked, “Feel better?”

“It won’t come out.”

Frowning, he approached her carefully. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I have to get the stains out now,” she said, sounding detached – vacant.

“Why don’t you just wait ‘til morning? I’ll take it to a dry cleaners.”

“No,” she replied with more fervor. He could almost feel her knuckles rubbing together abrasively as she continued washing the stains out of the dress. “I have to do this now!”

“Okay,” he said, working to sound calm. “Do you want some help? I can fill up the garden tub for you. Let it soak in there.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I can do it.”

He let her struggle and work through her feelings though she was not making any progress. Finally, when he thought she’d wasted enough water and had done her dress enough damage, he shut off the faucet.

“No! It’s not done!” she cried.

Firmly, he took the dress from her and hung it over the shower curtain. It dripped steadily, a dark wet mess.

“Zach, I’m not finished,” she protested. “I have to get them out now!”

She was sounding like a broken record. He had to physically stop her from going after it. “Stop it,” he ordered, gripping her shoulders. “It’s just a dress.”

Her face contorted, and she shook her head, dropping her watery gaze. “You don’t understand,” she said thickly. “You don’t understand at all.” She broke down, and he pulled her close, letting her cry into his chest. Her hands balled into fists which she kept tightly to herself as he rubbed her back over the towel.

She calmed, and eventually he felt her post-cry, shaky breathing.

“I need to check on that cut now,” he said and she gave a pathetic nod. Releasing her, he took out a few things from the cupboard beneath the sink. Gauze, a square bandage, some rubbing alcohol. She wouldn’t need much.

Pouring some rubbing alcohol onto the gauze, he disinfected the area, which looked a lot better now without the smears of blood. Her wet strands brushed his forearm, and he drew it aside more than she already had. She smelled sweet and inviting, and her skin, even with the laceration, was the color of caramel and tempting in every way. It was too much to resist.

But he was drowning in a pool of sickening guilt and even she couldn’t pull him out of it. Not tonight.

“Does it ever get easier?” she whispered. “Thinking you’re going to die?”

His eyes flickered, hand moving slowly over her wound. “It does, but it doesn’t make it easy.” Sensing her spirits dive, he added, “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t reply right away. “Sometimes.” Finished, he let her damp, heavy curls fall naturally and saw that it covered up the injury quite well. No one would have to know.

Finding her beautiful but shadowed reflection staring at him in the mirror, he fought the desire which had taken painful root in him and stepped back. “Get dressed. You can sleep in my bed.” When he saw her eyes widen in the mirror, he clarified, feeling heat sting his neck. “I’ll be on the couch.”