Nightcrawler (9 page)

“

“Why, that sounds like a great idea!” Sabrina snapped out of her funk. “I'm heading straight over there after I get home from work. See you then.”

Jon Aeppli came to her office after lunch, having spent most of the morning with Rick Alfonso and Tom Durham making plans for the Brooklyn Bridge project. He seemed very distracted and Sabrina settled in her desk for what she was sure would be a long sermon.

“I just don't know what to say,” he lowered his head as he rested his elbows on the arms of the overstuffed chair before her desk. “It just seems like you can't win for losing with this little enterprise of yours. I see you're limping again, doubtlessly over what I'm sure was another one of your escapades. Now you've got the LGBT people howling for the Nightcrawler's blood again. When is this all going to end?”

“Now, Jon, I'm sure you got all riled up over watching TV this morning. I'm sure you must've seen something about Hoyt uncovering an Octagon plot to blow up an entire section of the Catskills mountain range. He might come out with a Medal of Valor for this. Considering all that we've accomplished, I don't think a little mudslinging by the LGBTers should invalidate everything else.”

“Did you also know that Rod Ramirez closed his place down this weekend?” he studied her face carefully.

“Uh, he called me yesterday and mentioned it.”

“Don't you think it was a little bit more than a coincidence?”

“You may be right. Being so close to the Gulf of Mexico and with all those out-of-country connections, he might have got involved in some bad business.”

“And, of course, there's no chance of us being implicated in anything like that.”

“That's why I asked you and Rick to reach out to our suppliers to make sure we weren't going to get red-flagged by Homeland Security if we start placing those new orders,” she insisted. “I've already given you my word. I'm not going to let my crime prevention endeavors compromise the future of this company.”

“Okay, so you've built this dichotomy for yourself that won't allow you to listen to reason,” Jon got up, heading out the door. “I'm not worried about the Company, Sabrina. I'm worried about you.”

“I'll be all right,” she said in a small voice.

“You've got so much to live for, kid,” he said ruefully, patting the doorframe before returning to his office.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful save for a couple of calls from James Hunt, looking to secure a start date for discussions on his upcoming project. Sabrina opted for next Friday, which would make it a leisurely bull session providing for a full-throttle start on the following Monday. She sent e-mails to Jon and Ryan, informing them of the power lunch before taking off at four-thirty that afternoon.

She drove home and took a shower, washing off some of the Ben-Gay and changing to a pants suit before heading back out to the Staten Island Ferry and taking the boat over to Lower Manhattan. She reached the Church shortly before six PM, greeting Rita and the other girls before Pastor Mitchell arrived.

“I'm afraid I've got some bad news about the barbecue this Saturday afternoon,” the Pastor was disconsolate. “The City denied us the permits we needed to extend the event past our property lines. There seemed to be a protest from the LGBT community over the purpose of the activity. I was also given a friendly word of advice that we might want to postpone this indefinitely until the political atmosphere improves.”

“What on earth could those people be on about now?” Sabrina was exasperated, still smarting over the backlash against the Nightcrawler on TV earlier that day.

“They feel that our religious convictions may be discriminatory as far as restricting their community's right to adopt,” he said sadly. “I think we've got a good legal foundation when push comes to shove, but at this stage things could get hairy if they start demonstrating against us.”

“We can't back down now, we've sent out too many invitations!” Rita objected. “We've got some influential people who've visited our website and are very supportive of our cause. They've committed to coming down and making donations, and we just stand to lose too much if we cancel the event.”

“We can have it at my house,” Sabrina spoke up. “I'm about ten minutes from the ferry station. If they use Google or Map Quest, it'll put them right on my doorstep. I've got a big back yard with a fence, we'll have privacy and all the room we need, plus plenty of parking. I think I'll even get us a couple of those big barbecue cookers and some extra meat, since everybody's gonna be taking the ferry boat ride out to see us.”

“Are you sure it won't be too much trouble?” the Pastor was hesitant.

“There's nothing I can do for God that I'd consider too much trouble,” she said merrily.

“Well, I certainly can't argue with that,” Mitchell was somewhat relieved. “I guess I'll let you and Rita work out the details and make sure everyone knows about the change in plans.”

“Sounds fantastic,” Rita was delighted as the young women all thanked Sabrina for her kindness.

“Uh, Sabrina—?”

“Yes, Pastor?”

“Do you think I could have a word after the meeting?”

Hoyt called when she got home, and he was still in Garrison meeting with Homeland Security over the recent incident. They put him up in a local hotel, and he was ecstatic over the prospect of being nominated for a Medal of Valor. Only he was enervated from all the tension-filled activity and could not wait to see Sabrina again.

“They were grilling me hard over the Nightcrawler,” he admitted. “They couldn't believe I got a tip like that from an anonymous caller, especially after the first one about the warehouse. I'll wait until I see you to tell you more about it. I don't want to get into it on a hotel telephone.”

“Okay,” she was in her oval bed in her large and comfortable bedroom at the manor, clad in her silk pajamas. “You better make sure you invite me to that award ceremony when you get that medal, or I'm gonna be pretty upset.”

“Are you kidding? If you don't show up, I'm not going.”

“Well, then, we've got a date. You're coming out to my place for the barbecue Saturday, right?”

“If you're there, I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Call me when you get in?”

“Don't bet against it.”

They gave each other big loud smooches over the phone before hanging up, and Sabrina fell asleep feeling like a teenager in love.

He returned to town Friday evening, and they met for dinner that night before taking a carriage ride around Central Park. She rode with her head on his shoulder and his arm around hers, and she could not think of a time when she had been happier. She only hoped that his recent achievements would earn him a desk job somewhere so she wouldn't have to worry about him taking risks out on the field in future.

She woke up bright and early the next morning and hired some of the landscapers at BCC to come out and help set up for the barbecue. Her father had a stack of folding tables and chairs in one of the garage areas for such occasions, and she called a rental place to bring out some large barrels and mobile pits for the set-up. She next had a couple of slabs of beef and cafeteria-sized salad containers delivered, expecting as many as one hundred people who responded to Rita's website invitation. As an afterthought, she even rented a couple of Port-O-Sans.

The guests started arriving about ten AM for the event, but Sabrina also noticed cars parking in a field down the way from them where people began congregating. The crowd outside was much smaller than that out on her lawn, but continued growing nonetheless. Eventually they began moving closer and closer to her front gates until they were standing directly across the street.

“My goodness,” Pastor Mitchell came over to where Sabrina was standing at the gate entrance to the manor. They were astonished at the sight of television broadcast vehicles pulling up along the side street. “I can't believe those people would go to this extreme.”

They were chagrined as the news reporters attempted to interview some of the expectant mothers as they made their way up to Sabrina's home. Some of them wiped away tears as they were asked personal questions about their pregnancies and personal situations. More than a few of the benefactors and invitees had choice words for the reporters and protestors as they continued to beleaguer the woman attending the barbecue.

“This kind of discrimination not only violates gay rights, but compromises the future of these innocent children!” Al Carbone, a 6'4”, 300-pound man wearing a wig and summer dress, thundered into a microphone before the cameras. “My partner is a professional earning over one hundred thousand dollars per year, and could provide a child nearly three times the benefits of a lower middle-class Christian family. I also know of business associates of mine who earn twice as much as my partner does. What right do these Christians have to pick and choose who has a chance at a better life than another child?”

Sabrina was beside herself as she called Hoyt to see if there was anything that could be done. He put her on hold and made a couple of calls, and was told that the LGBT demonstrators were perfectly within their rights as long as they were not on Sabrina's property.

“Don't worry, sweetheart,” he assured her. “Go on and get back to your party. I'll be there in a little bit, and we'll see what's what.”

Sabrina remained the perfect hostess, going from table to table to meet and greet everyone and make sure all the guests had plenty to eat. She recognized more than a few people from Chamber of Commerce meetings she had attended, and took occasion to exchange business cards and schedule some power lunches.

Everyone was surprised as a number of patrol cars pulled up in front of the manor gates. Sabrina rushed over to see what was happening, and was surprised to see Hoyt emerging from the lead vehicle.

“Hi, baby,” he pecked her on the cheek, clad in a white silk shirt and jeans in the mild June weather. “Hope I'm not late.”

“What's going on?” she wondered.

“I just thought I'd have some friends come out and check out some of your barbecue,” he said airily. She watched as over a dozen gay cops climbed out of their vehicles, going directly over to the crowd of demonstrators to exchange words. The LGBT protestors started to argue but saw they had been trumped by Hoyt's gambit.

“You better get down from that fence, baby, or you're gonna get hurt,” a black cop lisped angrily at a man who had climbed up on Sabrina's gate.

“I'm demonstrating for gay rights!” the man insisted.

“I'm gonna give you some gay rights and lefts if you don't get down!” the cop snapped at him.

“Oh, Hoyt, what a wonderful surprise,” Sabrina hugged him.

“Well, you owe me, lady,” he winked at her. “I'm going over to where they're cutting on that slab of beef and get some payback.”

Sabrina saw a couple of people from the group of protestors coming through the gate, and headed over to make sure this was not going to get out of hand.

“Excuse me, Miss Brooks,” one of the two women spoke up, both considerably larger in size than Sabrina. Upon closer inspection she could see that they were transgendered. “My name is Callen Marlowe, I'm a reporter from
Gay Garden
magazine. I was noticing what a lovely garden and landscape you have along the sides of the house and was wondering if I could take some pictures. We haven't done any features on this side of the Island for a while, and thought your home would be a great place to start. Plus, maybe if these people saw us walking around, they might consider calling it a day.”

“Sure, why not?” Sabrina agreed. “Go right ahead. Here's my business card, just give me a call if anyone wants to come back out. You can get yourselves some food if you like.”

Sabrina returned to the party as the solidly-built women strolled towards the rear of the house with their equipment bags in tow. They took pictures and looked around, nonchalantly peeking through windows until they found what they were looking for.

“Here we go,” said Sheryl Harrington as she located the master bedroom. Callen opened the largest bag and pulled out a large flowerpot containing some fresh sprouts. She set the pot slightly behind a bed of roses right beneath the bedroom window.

“Hello?” a muffled voice answered a cell phone.

“This is the Tarantula,” Callen replied. “Mission accomplished.”

“Excellent,” the Reaper replied. “Better get out of there so no one gets a chance to remember what you looked like.”

The women furtively exited through the main gate, feeling triumphant in having made a move that they felt would end the threat of the Nightcrawler once and for all.

L.I. RESIDENTIAL EXPLOSION UNDER INVESTIGATION – HEIRESS' BODY MISSING

—(AP) A mysterious explosion at a Long Island residence early Sunday morning may have resulted in the death of the heiress of the Brooks Chemical Company. Sabrina Brooks, 24, was home at the time of the blast but her remains have yet to be found. The intensity of the explosion incinerated a large portion of the mansion, but police have not confirmed whether Ms. Brooks' body was rendered untraceable.

Ms. Brooks hosted a Church barbecue earlier in the day that sparked a sizeable protest over the non-denomination's pro-life adoption policies. Police are investigating whether the event may have triggered the attack.

Neighborhood Security kept an emergency list for everyone in the exclusive South Shore residential section, and contacted Jon Aeppli and Hoyt Wexford immediately after the blast was reported. They found each other after arriving to find firefighters working desperately to contain the two-alarm blaze.

“I can't believe this,” Hoyt was in a state of distraction, tears spilling down his cheeks. “How could something like this happen?”

“I hope it didn't have anything to do with that trip you two took upstate,” Jon said quietly.

“She told you about that?” Hoyt stared at him.

“I've known her all her life,” Jon said, his eyes misty. “She trusted me with lots of things.”

“Nightcrawler?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm gonna get whoever did this. I swear I'll make them pay for this.”

“That's exactly what she wouldn't want,” Jon insisted. “She cared for you, kid, cared for you a lot. She wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to you. This should be enough. Please, for Sabrina's sake. Let the FBI and Homeland Security get those rats.”

“I can't promise you anything,” Hoyt managed. “I won't rest until they're caught, but I'll try to stay with the pack so I can see those slimeballs get taken down.”

Jon drove home and could not even think of going back to bed. When he went to work, the entire hundred-person staff was in the lobby awaiting him. He told them what he had witnessed at her home, and they were in a state of distraction as they went about their duties.

“Good gosh, Jon, this is terrible,” Rick Alfonso came to his office shortly afterwards. “Where are you gonna start with this? Do you have any contact information for her relatives? Did Vern ever mention anything about how the Company was going to be administered if anything happened to Sabrina?”

“I'm in the same boat as everyone else,” Jon admitted. “I'm gonna call the family lawyer and see what he's got. As far as this place goes, I think it'll be best for us to keep things going as best we can until the lawyer lets us know where we stand on legal ground. Knowing Vern Brooks as well as I did, I'm pretty positive he had some contingency plan in case something like this ever happened.”

As senior partners, Jon, Rick and Ryan stayed well past regular hours to make sure they contacted all their clients and let them know they were expecting a seamless transition as Sabrina's affairs were settled. The three of them refused to accept any calls, avoiding the press as they struggled through the day. They all stayed later than normal, though Jon was first to leave as he had been awake and under enormous stress since two-thirty that morning.

Rick Alfonso was feverishly at work at his desk on the Durham project. He knew that if Vern Brooks had made contingency plans to liquidate the company in the event of Sabrina's demise, then time was of the essence. It would take Vern's lawyer time to file all the legal paperwork and assume power as executor to release everyone from employment before beginning the liquidation process. Rick knew that if he could get some extra front money from Durham, their bonus clauses would kick in and they would all walk away from the table with a little extra.

He saw a figure walk into the room through the shadows, as he had cut off his fluorescent light and switched to his desk lamp as was Company policy. Vern Brooks established it as a signal to outsiders that the business was closed and personnel was burning the midnight oil. He continued researching his databases until a soft hand brushed his cheek.

“Working late again?”

“I think we all should

be,” Rick muttered. “They're not exactly giving out golden parachutes when this place crashes and burns, you know.”

“I just can't believe it's all come to this,” Ryan Hoffman sighed forlornly as he stared out the picture window overlooking the fields covering the north end of the building. “Just last year, Vern was nearly doubling our projection figures, Sabrina was majoring in law enforcement, and it looked like we were going to be all going to retire here. How could it have come to this?”

“Life sucks, and then you die,” Rick grumbled. “Things change, especially for gay people. Why do you think the Jews and the blacks treat us so well? They know just what it's like. Times and opinions can change in the blink of an eye. One minute you're on top, and the next minute when things go bad, they're looking for scapegoats. If they sell this place and some macho straight guy takes over, we'll probably be the first to get our pink slips. I say we just milk this cow and get the heck out of Dodge.”

“What about
us
, Rick?” Ryan insisted, his voice quivering. “I thought we had something going between us. I know we haven't been…together in a long time, but that doesn't change what I feel for you.”

“My feeling have never changed for you either, you know that,” Rick kept his eyes glued to his PC monitor as he typed in data. “We both know it was too risky to keep it going. My wife was suspicious about me coming home late all the time and so was yours. She's going to be on me like flies on poop when I get home tonight. We've got too much to lose by having an affair, we've talked about this time and again. I think we need to focus more on keeping what we got than wishing for what might never be. We need to start on trying to keep this place open for at least a few more paydays.”

“I love you, Rick,” Ryan wiped his eyes.

“Love you too,” he replied. “Go on home and get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

He waited until he heard the door from Ryan's office close, then the heavy metal exit door on the side of the silent building. He listened for Ryan's car to start up, and the gravel crunching under his tires as he finally took off for home. Rick then got up and went over to Sabrina's office, switching on her PC and logging in under her 'guest' password that she stupidly never bothered to convert.

It was the whole family business concept that was Vern Brooks' downfall, If he would have set everything up so that Jon Aeppli would have benefitted from a Brooks tragedy, this scenario would have never happened. Everyone knew that Sabrina was just a spoiled little airhead who didn't have the discipline or the character to follow in her father's footsteps. Vern was a hunk who Rick would have gone down on in a New York minute. His daughter was the exact opposite: a weak, unfocused little party girl spending money faster than she could ever make it. This ship was destined to sink and Rick was the only one smart enough to grab a life raft.

When Sheryl and Callen reached out to him back around springtime, he put them on hold for fear of being discovered by Vern and risking termination and possible imprisonment. When Vern met his untimely demise, it seemed as if an omen that would change his life. He called the girls back and told them the deal was a go. He also found that his incredible streak of luck continued as Sabrina had not changed her password. He was able to hack into the classified database and access all the information from the military project. Jon Aeppli continued thinking it was Sabrina opening the database from her workstation as Rick turned all the chemical weapon research files over to Sheryl and Callen for five hundred thousand dollars.

The Octagon's scam was a stroke of genius. They had already been paid $100 million by Al Qaeda to launch a chemical attack on New York City. Regardless of whether they succeeded or not, it would lock down the Empire State in a red alert state of emergency for another ten years. The Reaper's demands for extortion money was just a ruse, weakening the citizens' resolve in making them second-guess the prevailing philosophy to never meet terrorists' demands. When they released the Kolokol-1 over the East River during the upcoming Fourth of July celebration, nearly one million people would be injured or killed by the gas. Al Qaeda would announce that they paid the Octagon five hundred million dollars for completing the attack. It would leave the people of New York, and the world, forever wondering why their Government could not have spared the money to save so many lives.

“Good evening, Rick,” he heard an electronic voice in the doorway that nearly made him jump out of his skin. “Looks like you lost your way back to your desk in the dark.”

He looked up and saw a shadowy figure rush towards him, and he rose just as a cloud of a powdery substance seemed to engulf him. He felt as if he had been submerged underwater, his ears and throat clogged and his tongue thickened so as almost to gag him. He dropped back in the overstuffed swivel chair and tried to move his arms and legs to no avail.

“Your wife and kids are outside,” a voice called to him from miles away. “If you don't tell me everything I want to know, I'm going to bring them in and make you confess you're a sissy.”

“No—aaghh—“ Rick was barely able to move his tongue.

“Mrs. Alfonso?” the voice called loudly from across the void.

“No—“ he pleaded. “No—!”

“Okay, then. You better admit everything, just answer yes or no.”

It seemed to Rick as if thirty years, but thirty minutes passed in real time before the unending torrent of questions abated. He was starting to regain movement, floundering around as if he had just been rescued from drowning. He felt as if he was roaring drunk, unable to remember from one minute to the next. He only knew that his wife and kids might have been sitting outside, and hopefully they would be able to drive him home once he was able to get up on his feet.

“
Sabrina!
”

Jon Aeppli had gotten home and realized that he left a finalized report on the Durham project on his desk. He had to drive back all the way from Bensonhurst to get it, as he had called Durham earlier that day and told him it would be ready for pickup tomorrow. He was stunned to see the light on in Sabrina's office, and even more so at what he discovered.

“Hi, Jon,” she said meekly. “I caught Rick looking at stuff he shouldn't be looking at, and it sure's not porn. I think you should fire him.”

“Oh, Sabrina,” Jon rushed over and took her in his arms, hugging her tight. “Why didn't you at least call me? I was at your house last night with Hoyt, it was the most terrible night of my life. We thought you had been burned alive.”

“I just took the opportunity to check on some stuff,” she said apologetically. “I wouldn't have caught this rat messing with my computer if he thought I was still around. He set Ryan up, and he sold all our classified WMD research to the Octagon.”

“I'm calling the police,” Jon reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

“No, don't,” she pleaded. “Just let him go. He'll be sorry. He's been here for years, and now he won't dare even use us for a reference. I'm sure his wife and kids have been through enough already.”

“What are you gonna do now?” he asked, marveling at her Nightcrawler uniform with the balaclava draped around her neck. “You look like a mutant ninja turtle.”

“I've got to figure out what the Octagon's gonna do with those formulas. Al Qaeda's not shipping the WMD's in, they're making the chemical ingredients available through the black market. The Octagon ordered the chemicals weeks in advance, thanks to this tapeworm. The Russian Mob has already delivered the ingredients for Kolokol-1. They're planning a strike at the Fourth of July celebration on the East River. I just have to figure how they're planning on pulling it off.”

“No!” Jon was adamant. “This is too big for you! You can't risk innocent lives by going at this on your own! If you fail or miscalculate, there'll be over a million people exposed to that gas!”

“Okay, reason with me,” she insisted. “First of all, these guys got paid in advance. They're following through because they're trying to get in on the international level. I did my homework, I know who the Reaper is. He threw me out a window a few days ago. His name is Dalibor Branko, he was a leader with the Serbian Liberation Army in Kosovo in the 90's. He's wanted throughout Europe for war crimes, but Interpol thinks he's dead. He's connected with the Russian Mob, and they're the ones moving the chemicals for Al Qaeda. If he pulls this off, they'll send the Octagon back to Europe for operations against the European Union. He thinks I'm dead and no one else's close to catching him. He's got his money, he thinks he's out of here after this, he'll be careless and I'll nail him this time.”

“No way, young lady. They've nearly killed you, I'm not standing by while you give them another chance.”

“Follow your heart, Jon,” Sabrina entreated him as she headed out the door. “You know I'm right, and you know I can get this guy. If you call the cops, they'll issue an alert and he'll dump it on the street or in the water. He has absolutely nothing to lose. I'm betting he's going to try and drop it during the air show. Once it's off the ground and I take him out, we can have the police capture the aircraft and move it over the ocean where it can't hurt anyone.”

“It's too risky,” he warned her. “I'm calling the cops.”

“Follow your heart,” she pleaded before disappearing down the hall.

He tapped the cell phone in his pocket, looking down at the semi-conscious figure of Rick Alfonso. Resisting an urge to kick him in the teeth, he resigned himself to sitting in Sabrina's chair and waiting for the renegade to come to his senses.

Hoyt Wexford had an early supper and caught a nap before heading out for a late shift that evening. Security was high for the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, and he was going to meet with his unit to discuss contingency operations in the event there was an emergency during the celebration. It would be a gratuitous appearance on his part as he was being decorated with the Medal of Valor in a ceremony next week. He was also being promoted to Sergeant and given a detective's badge. He had requested time off to recover himself after Sabrina's death, and the Department could not refuse such a celebrated member of the force. Yet they would require him to respond in case of emergency, so he would attend the meeting to receive instructions before taking his leave.