Myth Man (39 page)

He heard feet shuffle, and then saw them, but instead of walking toward the exit, Ridgewood came down the hall with his mother in front. She fired.

Debris from the wall crashed around Presto’s head. He winced and ducked back.

*****

Ridgewood tried to push the stubborn bitch forward, but granny wouldn’t cooperate. She wanted to use the shield further, but she had enough. For a distraction, she fired her gun again at Presto’s door. Then she put a bullet in the hag’s head.

For a brief flash, she felt joy. She might just get out of this, but the spark she felt extinguished like a strong breeze vaporized her. She suddenly felt weak and dizzy. She willed herself to march forward, but her legs went numb, and instead, she fell. The gun slipped from her grasp. Her pulse raced, and she began to shake. Something was very wrong.

Was the antivenom too late, or was she double-crossed? She gagged.

She saw a gun poke out from the room, then Presto’s head. His eyes went to his mother, and his face went white. Ridgewood guessed hers was paler.

Presto went down to one knee and spoke. “Lorraine, if you want to live for real, you are going to talk, and you’re going to talk quickly. Tell me who’s behind this.”

Ridgewood willed to speak, but her mouth was desert dry. She didn’t want to live, but she’d talk anyway.

“I was asked to help Donavan set up Bailey and remove him if he became a liability,” she sputtered, “but no one had to die if you didn’t play the game with the keys. Carter and I were to move the truck, where we would later be carjacked. Bailey would have been exonerated. It was clean. It was all set. I was going to make a bundle for the operation, and,” she managed with pride, “be a hero.” Her breathing became short.

Presto poked her to continue.

Her mouth began to lose shape as she spoke, like an inebriated ventriloquist. “If it went well, I’d continue in my career for a few years and then retire with millions. If it didn’t, we’d still be millionaires.”

Ridgewood coughed. It took everything she had to get that out. She tried again. “Imagine if the Ark of the Covenant is really in that crate. Forget the money; think about the power it could possess. People in our government were angered when it was awarded to a Jewish organziation, as loyal citizens as they may be.”

Presto pressed her further. “Give me names.”

“We got a call from the FBI director himself. He said he was sending an agent to meet us who worked on a special joint mission with the CIA. We were told to follow his orders only. His name was Agent Charlie Hawkins. It was a matter of national security.”

Ridgewood gagged.

CHAPTER-EIGHTY-NINE

J
ACK BURTON STARED AT the man seated before him. “Will that be it?” The question was phrased as if he said,
That better be it
.

“Just a few minutes more,” the agent replied.

As soon as Burton had hung up with Presto, a man came to visit. He had a neatly trimmed beard, was dressed in a dark suit, and had horn-rimmed glasses, which gave Burton the impression of a banker. He introduced himself as Assistant FBI Director Charlie Hawkins and asked for a few minutes of his time.

Hawkins was led to a small office that looked, from experience, like an interrogation room. Seated across from each other, Agent Hawkins said he was sent from the FBI director to investigate what had happened at The Lubavitch Center. The man asked Burton to summarize the day’s events as he understood them.

Initially, everything seemed routine. The agent worked methodically, too methodically for Burton. The guy tediously rehashed everything, even the minutia, in extracting a full summary.

Burton grew weary. “I have to make that phone call. My friend could be in trouble. I told you, Agent Ridgewood is missing. We need to get backup there.”

Like the heroic snake, Aphrodite, Agent Hawkins did not blink. “As I told you, we received a call from Malcolm Bailey, who also spoke to Detective Presto. The police and FBI had been dispatched to his apartment moments before I spoke to you. I’m sure everything is fine.”

But as more time passed, even the stoic agent seemed antsy. “Yes, that should be it,” he finally said. “Let me go check on one thing. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Burton waited and fumed. Ten minutes passed. He pulled out his cell phone and was pleased to see a full signal. Previously, he’d tried to follow through on Presto’s request to send police officers to his residence when his signal failed. That was when Agent Hawkins had materialized by his side.

CHAPTER NINETY

T
EARS FELL DOWN PRESTO’S face.

He lay on the floor beside his dead mother. Her lifeless head, with entry and exit wounds, lay on his lap. He’d wiped the blood off of her face and now played with her hair.

Presto looked at Ridgewood’s gun. He thought about ending his own life. He figured his mother would die before him but not in this way. Killed because of his work and by the first woman he’d shared a bed with. He could deal with the humiliation but not the loss of the only soul he loved.

He clasped her frail hand and thought of her bravery. She had probably saved his life with her tackle. Then he thought of her words. “I’m dying.” She’d kept the truth from him. He wanted to be angry and ask her a million questions. Like a blubbering boy, he began to talk to her.

For whom the bells toll
, he thought, breaking his reverie, and then realized he was listening to the muffled sound of a ringing cell phone. It was coming from Ridgewood’s jacket. He rolled her body over and pulled it off her belt. The number on the screen read “Private.”

Presto was not the best impressionist, but he gave it his best college try. “Problems,” he said in a huffed feminine octave.

“Agent Ridgewood?” asked a plain but harried voice.

“Problems, Agent Hawkins,” Presto tried. He kept the pitch high and the volume low.

“Do you have the truck keys? Is Presto dead?”

“We have to meet,” Presto said.

“Agent Ridgewood?” the caller questioned. Then came a short, sinister laugh, and the voice changed to a more modulated, familiar tone. “So you’re alive, Detective Presto?”

“You bastard,” seethed Presto.

“Now, now,” the voice taunted. “It’s a shame you’re among the living, but I must say my plan still worked to perfection. Sorry, I don’t have time to chat. I’m sure we’ll meet again one day, Detective Presto.” The line went dead.

Presto hit redial, but the call failed. He dropped the phone to the floor. He went back tending to his mother, when a phone rang again. His.

“Burton,” he answered frantically.

“Are you okay?” The raspy voice asked.

Presto did not answer, yet. “Were you with some guy Agent Hawkins?”

“Yeah,” said a puzzled-sounding Burton. “He interviewed me and left me in this room. Said he’d be back in five; it’s now been ten.”

“Please, Jack. Find that man and arrest him.”

“Leaving now,” Burton said. “Can I ask what happened? Did Bailey get the police there?”

Now Presto was confused. “Bailey? No I haven’t talked to him.”

“This Agent Hawkins grabbed me. Said things were under control, that you had phoned Bailey, and help was on the way.”

“No one came, Jack. Two cops are dead. Agent Ridgewood’s dead. My neighbor’s dead.” He paused, and the tears returned. “My mother’s dead, too. Ridgewood killed her.” With anger, he stifled a sob. “Find Agent Hawkins, aka Myth Man. Now!”

After Presto hung up with Burton, he continued to lie on the floor with his dead mother. He didn’t hear the police until they were upon him. His tears and choked sobs deafened their entrance. He told them to look in his mother’s bathroom for the two dead officers. One tried to help him to his feet, but Presto declined. He wanted more time with his mother.

Presto did not move until the medics arrived. Seated beside his dead mother, he told the police what happened.

Eventually, he struggled to his feet. If the quick ascent did not disorient him, the next voice ordeal did.

“Arthur,” wailed a hyperventilating sob. “No, no, Arthur.”

A commotion.

“Let me in,” screamed Gina Stagnuts.

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

P
RESTO WATCHED A ROBIN leave the dug up earth and fly away with a wriggling worm snared in its beak. The bird took advantage of the upturned soil that surrounded Cleo Presto’s casket. He smiled and thought of his mother and how she would sit in the corner park and enjoy a slice of nature.

He shed tears as he received condolences. But through it all, he smiled. He had to. He owed his mother that much. She saved his life, so he could live it.

Camille stood by him, but her aunt would not come. Presto was advised to stay away from Arthur’s funeral.

Mayor Golden was even on hand, and he gave a small eulogy that was truly gracious. Presto was thankful for the eloquent, moving words without the benefit of TV cameras.

Afterward, when everyone left, he asked Camille for a moment with Bailey, Burton, and the recovering Danko. He kept his words brief.

Despite the rabbis’ deaths, the police were viewed favorably, while the heat fell squarely on the FBI. The crate was saved and was to be returned to the Chabad center under the auspices of another esteemed group of rabbis. The accolades meant nothing to Presto.

The real Agent Hawkins was found stationed along the U.S./Mexican border. He’d been there for the past few months, without fail. Of course, the FBI director never contacted Agents Ridgewood or Donavan

“I want to thank you for being here,” began Presto. “Tonight, I’m going to spend one last night mourning. Tomorrow, I’m coming to work. Agents Ridgewood and Donavan were pawns. We know who did this. I will not rest until I find Myth Man,” he declared.

Everyone ratified his creed.

*****

After dinner, Presto and Camille went back to the W Hotel on Lexington Avenue. They went to the bar, rather than their room. After getting two beers, they found an unoccupied couch.

“Thanks,” he gushed. He was drunk again, but this time, it felt good. He was sad and happy and thankful when Camille suggested he stay in a hotel for a few days, with herself included. A package deal he could enjoy.

Presto doubted he could ever return to the apartment. He’d take a real estate killing selling the place after the bloodbath inside, and although he did not believe in ghosts, he knew that if he lived there, he’d be forever haunted by personal demons.

They drank more. Camille and the booze loosened him up.

“You know,” she said, “it’s usually the female that poisons her lover, not vice versa. You’re the male black widow,” poked Camille.

He laughed. “Don’t remind me. The snake saved my life, and I have no way of thanking her.”

Camille grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong. After the police left, I went through your place and put pinkie mice near all the heating ducts. I sat on the couch and read a book with the lights dimmed. She came out a half hour later. I wanted to surprise you, but I saw how sad your face was when you mentioned her, and I couldn’t resist.”

Joyous, Presto spilled beer on his lap. “Really? Or are you trying to fool me with a duplicate?”

“That sounds like something your last girl would pull.” Camille gave a coquettish smile. “How about falling in love with someone you can trust?”

Camille pushed Presto back on the couch. She put her lips to his and kissed him.

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

T
HE RABBIS STOOD AROUND the open Iraqi crate. They shifted through the bowls of pottery, cooking utensils, old clothes, and sandals. After they rummaged through everything, they also found a box with twenty silver shekels. That was a lot of silver in those days, but worth only intrinsic value now.

Rabbi Corson spoke, “This appears to be the belongings of a merchant family that fled Israel. Nothing more.”

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

Y
OU SLEEP IN IT, you bathe in it.

Dean Fallow watched the news and laughed. The final score had been his best tally yet, and this time, he was not the actual agent of death.

When he thought of playing the two FBI agents, he was dubious it could actually work. But promises of money, an appeal to patriotism, and a human’s inability to question a higher authority (see God) were all the ingredients he needed. Turning Ridgewood against Donavan was the only easy part. Sure Detective Presto was still alive, but his original goal of killing the rabbis went splendidly. It was a joyous occasion.

Almost.

He knew Presto would hunt for him. Good luck now that he was in Siberia or, should he say, the New York Adirondacks. Thus far, in one week, he’d seen more deer than people. Maybe he would send the fat detective a condolence card on the loss of his mother.

Today, however, he was traveling to the western part of the state. He left his room with a urine-stained mattress and checked out of the motel. He didn’t check in under the name Chip Dexter, mostly because there was no need to record that name at a motel within ten minutes of his destination. The other reason was he just didn’t like being Chip Dexter. He liked to be no one and anyone. That was the beauty of disguise.

He hopped into a Honda Civic with stolen plates. He looked again at his disguise in the rearview mirror. Aged, he thought he would look good in twenty years.

He drove through country roads that reminded him of his new hometown. He instinctively looked out for deer. After twenty minutes, he pulled past a dilapidated split-level ranch. Fallow snorted; worst house on the block.

He walked past overgrown junipers, with branches that impeded the pathway to a beaten screen door and knocked.

After a few minutes, a door unlocked, and an elderly lady with her silver hair in a bun and large cross around her neck appeared. “You must be Jonathan,” she said.

Fallow gave his best Sunday smile. “Hello. And you must be Ms. Baker. You look wonderful,” he charmed.

She led him inside. They crossed a living room that reminded Fallow of when he toured Betsy’s Ross’s Philadelphia home. Fallow wondered if each owner of this house kept things exactly as their predecessor had. Heck, folks spent a lot of money to live around antiques. Maybe the home was a family hand-me-down.

She pointed to a dark wood-stained door. “He’s downstairs in the basement. I’ll put some brownies on. My boy loves them.”

Fallow descended a few steps and called out. “Luke?”

“Keep coming. I’m right down here.”

Fallow continued until he hit pay dirt. Literally. The floor was nothing more than pressed dirt with a few gravel chips here and there. The stone-walled room covered the whole floor of the house. In the recess was a crude bunker with an effigy hung from a pole. Fallow looked closer. The face was black. A crude Jewish star was painted over the heart, and a red turban rested on the head.

On the walls were guns and crosses.

Seated in front of a computer was a paunchy middle-aged man. As Fallow got closer, he saw more hair hanging from the guy’s nostrils than sprouting from his scalp.

“Jonathan? The Deacon? Is it really you?” The man went to rise from his chair.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Myth Man. He came up beside him. He pointed to the desktop computer. “So, Trumpet of God. Is this where you do all of God’s good work?”

“Yes,” the man said and turned his back.

Myth Man took the needle from his pocket and quickly shoved it in the man’s neck.

“You’re going to die, asshole. P.S., There’s no salvation.”

The End