Takedown (18 page)

W
alter Hess put down his fork, leaned over the small tabletop, stretched and adjusted the rabbit-ear antennas on his boat’s
little television until the picture cleared. For some reason channel seven had the best news and worst reception. For the
second day in a row he found himself the center of attention on every major network news channel. Such recognition. The time
would come when he would speak up and give God the credit He was due. In the meantime, he should be humble. He looked around
the cabin. Small cabin, small boat, old but reliable engine, hand tools, small bunk, one blanket, a pillow that doubled as
a life preserver, an old television, and modest food. Humility was key to the success he was having. His simplicity had made
him invisible to the world that was hunting him. He considered how Jesus had walked through angry crowds without being touched
and then disappeared.
God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble,
he thought. Why else would they have the whole world talking about him and looking for him without a clue as to who he was,
where he was, or what he would do next?

“Thank you, Jesus,” he said, then plopped back into his seat, picked up a slice of white bread, and gathered another forkful
of baked beans and freshly caught flounder. A few moments later the plate was clean and he considered himself satisfied physically,
mentally, and, more important, spiritually. He looked at his watch. Hightide
in about two hours. It would be dark. Good. He needed to get some fresh supplies and could only do it when the tide was high
and the sky was dark enough for him to go unnoticed.

Hess was about to get up when Senator Bruce Sweeney’s face filled the screen. As the camera panned back, he could see the
senator was on a rescue boat with an orange life preserver donned over a white button-down shirt. His hair was neatly combed,
and several other official-type personnel surrounded him. The capsized
Sachacus
was in the background. A channel seven microphone was just visible. Hess reached over the table to turn the volume up, wondering
if the rescue boat was even in the water.

“… and as I said yesterday at a similar disaster, the focus needs to be on tighter security. If it takes getting people out
from behind their comfortable little desks in their comfortable little offices to roll up their sleeves and help the cause,
then that’s what we need to do. If I can do it… we all can do it. We all need to join in and get dirty.”

“Then your rally against terror is still scheduled for the Fourth?”

Sweeney nodded. “Whether it’s the Fourth of July or the fourth of March, the message to stay focused and attack the problems—
terror being one of them—is what I’m giving my life to. The date doesn’t matter, but if we expect to keep our freedom and
our ability to celebrate it freely, then we need to get to work and follow a leadership that is willing to work.”

Hess turned down the volume and went over to his bunk. He lifted the thin mattress, opened the storage hatch under it, and
pulled out an aluminum gun case. He unlatched the case and opened it. The gun inside was a sharp contrast to the rest of the
cabin’s modest decor. A 50 BMG Barrett rifle. Model 99. Single shot. He would have preferred a semiautomatic but couldn’t
afford it. The single shot alone had cost him over three grand.

He feathered his fingers along the cold, olive-green metal stock
in proud admiration. Just over fifty inches in overall length. His gaze moved to the fifty-caliber rounds in their clear plastic
case. Seven-hundred-fifty-grain bullets. Seven times the size of his hunting rifle’s ammo.

Hess carefully took the premier sniper rifle out of its case, shouldered it, and pointed it toward the TV. At twenty-five
pounds, the rifle was better than three and a half times the weight of his hunting rifle. He flipped up the protective lids
on the Leupold 10X scope and peered in, hoping to put Sweeney in the crosshairs. Too close… way too close for a rifle capable
of exploding the pompous senator’s head from a mile away.

“God resists the proud,” Hess said as he brought the fluted muzzle around to the hinged-open front window of the cabin. The
boat was completely still, anchored in glass-calm waters near the Roslyn Marsh. He rested the bipod feet on the window ledge
and took a quick peek through the scope. Much better. About three-quarters of a mile away was a peninsula known to the locals
as Bar Beach. He took his baseball cap off and slid his eye behind the ten-power scope and focused. The bold optics snatched
every bit of light from the air. In the vast parking lot a second shift of workers was putting the finishing touches on the
rally platform the senator would be speaking from. Hess smiled at the detail he could make out from such a distance. He focused
on the tattooed Asian letters, or whatever they were, on the arm of one worker who was operating a drill. He imagined for
a moment what he would see in the scope if he took the shot.

“And gives grace to the humble.”

Hess squatted down as he continued to look through the scope. The crosshairs lifted over the heads of the workers and into
the trees beyond the parking lot and higher, higher, higher, until the high-tension wires from the power plant on the other
side of the harbor came into view. He followed one of the wires to the right until he
came to a ceramic insulator that kept the two-hundred-thousand-volt current passing through the bare cable wire from electrifying
the giant steel stanchions. He set the crosshair in the middle of the large ceramic insulator.
The weakest link,
he thought. He now imagined what would happen to the insulator if he took the shot. In his mind’s eye he saw the power cable
fall on the platform and then sweep across a parking lot full of Sweeney supporters.

Hess smiled contentedly and recited a verse from his morning reading: “Then the Lord spoke to Moses saying, ‘Take full vengeance
on the sons of Israel and on the Midianites. Afterward you will be gathered to your people.’”

Hess carefully returned his prized weapon to its cushioned case and snuggled it back into the hatch under his bunk. He then
shut off the television, peeked through his cabin windows to make sure there were no surprise visitors, and went out onto
the aft deck. He looked at his watch again. The water was probably high enough, but the sun hadn’t set yet. He would wait.
No sense in getting sloppy or impatient. For the next two days he had to be more careful than ever to measure his movements.
He was at a new level now. Soon his immediate mission would be over, and he could return to The Chosen with news that would
undoubtedly gain him a secure position within the trusted leadership. But this was not a time to dwell on dreams, even if
they had been prophesied. God would take care of his future as long as he continued to be true to his calling.

Two hours later Hess idled into the shallow creek that ran under the Roslyn Viaduct. Hess was alerted to a small orange light
to his left. A cigarette. Closer, the moonlight revealed an old black man sitting on a wooden bulkhead with a line in the
water. He appeared to be alone and gave Hess a nod as he passed. Hess returned the nod but not the sentiment. How easy it
would be for him to sneak
around and slit the man’s old, black throat. Who knew how many more the man was still capable of breeding.

But, no. He was called to bigger things now. Such spontaneous acts were to be forever in his past. Besides, the old man would
be looked for and the search could impede the greater plan.

A couple hundred feet later he was directly under the bridge and tying the boat up to an old, wooden ladder. His storage container
was a hundred or so yards away. He climbed up the ladder and turned to see which way the boat would drift. It stayed pointed
in the direction he’d come from, and then backed away from the ladder until the rope was taut. The tide was already on the
way out. He couldn’t waste any time. He hurried along a narrow path through weeds and dirt mounds until he came to commercial
equipment parked by various contractors. The way was dark, but he’d become very accustomed to the route over the last few
months. Finally he arrived at his forty-foot shipping container, one among many under the long viaduct.

Around the rear of the container he found his hidden key under a flat rock, then hurried back around and opened both large
padlocks. The hinges were well oiled and the door opened quickly and quietly. He took a quick look around, then entered and
turned on a small battery-powered fluorescent lamp offering just enough light for him to see halfway into the container. The
first and most important item was a fresh scuba tank to replace the empty one he’d used up working on the
Sachacus
. He found the spare where he’d left it, squatted down, and lifted the black tank onto his shoulder. Hopefully he wouldn’t
need it.

He started out the door and was startled by a figure walking by just twenty feet away. The figure was startled also.

“You scared me,” said the figure. It was the old man with a bucket and a pole in his hands.

“Sorry,” Hess said, setting down the scuba tank. He suddenly realized
the thoughts he’d had before about killing the old man were not his own. God was warning him and was now granting the opportunity
plainly and logically. The chance of the old man reporting him to someone and leading them back here was too much to risk.
He thanked God once again for giving grace to the humble. “Did you catch anything?”

“Bunch of eels. Couple of ’em pretty big.”

“Really,” Hess said, feeling for the knife strapped to his side. He found it, slipped his fingers through the cold metal grip.
“I guess your family’s going to have eels for dinner tomorrow. Sounds tasty.”

“You like eels?”

“Who doesn’t?” Hess said.

The old man chuckled. “Well, take one, then.”

“But your family.”

“They’re gone… been gone,” the old man said. “I’m just gonna freeze the big ones. Use the little ones for striper bait tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, huh?”

“Yup. Stripers love eels. And there ain’t nothin’ better tastin’ than striped bass in these or any other waters. Some big
ones always sittin’ in the reeds just waitin’ for an eel to happen by. My eel, heh, heh.”

Hess moved closer. “Well, sure then. Let me have a look at them.”

G
avin sat across from Chris at the Grellas’ kitchen table with a phone to his ear, barefoot in a pair of Chris’s pajamas and
a bathrobe. Showered and shaven. Most of his clothes had been destroyed in the crash, but a few remained. Fortunately, Amy
had been so preoccupied with the decorating, and Gavin with the construction and train derailment, that clothes had piled
up in their basement laundry room—enough to fill three loads in Chris’s machine.

“Hello.”

“Hi. This is Detective P—”

“You’ve reached Quinn Ranch. There’s no one available to answer your call right now, but if you leave your name, number, and
reason for your call at the tone, either Mary, Michele, or Jackie will get back to you as soon as possible.”
Beep.

“Hi, Mary. This is Detective Pierce. I hope all is going well for you up there. I was calling to see how Samantha was and
to give you a new phone number to call me at in an emergency.” Gavin left Chris’s house number and hung up.

“Guests first,” Pat said as she placed a healthy plate of steak and potatoes in front of him with an ear of fresh-picked corn
on the side. Gavin knew he was hungry, but he hadn’t known how hungry until now. He dug right in.

Chris wasted no time, either. He sliced through a tender piece
of red meat, stabbed it with his fork, and then paused to display it proudly. “Barbequed skirt steak, medium rare… my favorite
cut.”

“Mmm,” Gavin agreed, his mouth full, chewing passionately. He paused to take a gulp from a tall glass of iced tea. “A roll?”
Pat asked, extending a plate of freshly baked dinner rolls. Somehow, everything smelled so intensely good.

“Mmm,” said Gavin and Chris simultaneously, each taking one.

“Well, I hope you two gentlemen will excuse me. I’m going to bed,” Pat said.

“ ’Night, hon.”

“ ’Night, Pat. And thanks,” Gavin said, buttering a steamy hot roll.

Chris watched Pat go up the stairs, and then pointed his knife in Gavin’s direction as if it were his finger, paused to swallow,
and said, “So when did you first become convinced that Buck was right and Krogan was actually a demon?”

Gavin took a wash of tea to clear his mouth before speaking. “There wasn’t any one instance. More like mounting evidence.
I guess I first started to consider Buck’s explanation when Karianne attacked. There she was, all five and a half feet of
her, a hundred and ten soaking wet, tossing us grown men around the room like rag dolls.”

“I didn’t hear about this.”

“No… you weren’t about to. She would have killed us for sure if I hadn’t managed to stab her in the leg with Katz’s tranquilizer.”

“Why did she attack?”

“Well, according to Buck, it wasn’t really her attacking, but some demon inside her named Sabah. Katz had her hypnotized,
and I called the demon by name. The next thing I knew, Karianne was off the couch and we were looking to save our lives.”

“How did he know this demon’s name?”

“That’s his business. Or was. These deliverance ministers tend to run across the same demons from time to time.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know.” Gavin shrugged. “I guess because we’re all stuck on the same planet and there’s a finite number of them. Anyway,
he had told me not to mention the demon’s name without him around. I thought it was all nonsense, like you probably do right
now, but on the one percent chance there could be something to it…”

“You did exactly what you were told not to do.”

“Wouldn’t you have?”

Chris didn’t answer.

“Well, the experience left me with more than a hunch that there was more to what he was saying than met the eye. And apparently
you need to have a working knowledge and faith to speak to demons if you want to survive the conversation.”

“Does this sound a little weird to you?”

“It is weird,” Gavin admitted.

“You don’t have to tell me, Gav. I know it’s weird. I just wanted to know if you think so,” Chris said, then pointed his knife
in the direction of Gavin’s plate. “Want some more?”

“Uh, no. This was great, but I usually have strange dreams when I eat too much too late, and the way conscious life has been
going lately, I don’t want to give my nightmares any more fuel than they already have.”

“Refill on the tea?”

“Sure.”

Chris topped off their glasses, then led Gavin outside to the backyard patio, where Gavin flopped into a cushioned lounge
chair. Chris took a chair next to him at the table and lit a large citronella candle in a glass vase. Behind Chris, hanging
from the limb of a tree, a blue light was zapping bugs. The sky was clear; no moon, but
the stars were bright enough to beg off the need for any additional light. Behind Gavin a built-in pool was gurgling.

“So what else, Gav?” Chris asked.

“Huh?”

“You said there were a few things that convinced you, and as of yet, I’m not convinced that a little girl throwing around
adult men, even guys the size of Katz and his interpreter… what was his name?”

“Steinman.”

“Right, Steinman. Just because she was throwing you guys around doesn’t mean she was possessed by demons.”

“You had to be there.”

“Maybe, but I wasn’t. And women have been known to do amazing things under the right set of circumstances, like lifting trucks
off their children. And you said yourself she was under hypnosis.”

“Well, Karianne got my attention. But that wound up being the warm-up for what I saw with Krogan himself at Ellis Island.
He was about to bury a rock into my forehead when Buck showed up. You should have seen the look on his face when he saw Buck.
I’ll never forget it. It didn’t last long, but for a moment, there was no denying that Krogan was afraid.”

“So what did little old Buck do?”

“He ordered him to cease.”

“Cease?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said. Cease. After he said cease, Krogan couldn’t move his arm. He was like a statue. The rock fell
out of his hand and I got out from underneath him as fast as I could.”

“And then what?”

“That’s when Buck opened the chest and pulled out Jeremy.”

“Jeremy?”

“The tortoise.”

Even in the dark Gavin could see Chris roll his eyes. “I know, I
know. Believe me, when I saw that the secret weapon Buck was toting around was a tortoise, I thought we were all dead for
sure. But that’s when the next unexplainable thing happened.”

“The tortoise beat up Krogan?” Chris mocked.

“I will make you pay for this someday. No, Buck commanded the demon inside Dengler to go into the tortoise. When he did that—”
Gavin sat up on the lounger. “—I swear on my grandfather’s grave… Dengler collapsed and the tortoise started freaking out.”

“Freaking out?”

“Big-time. This young tortoise was as docile as a loaf of bread… and just like that, the thing’s climbing out of its shell,
eyes bulging, trying to get away, and when we run after and grab it, it’s snapping at us like a rabid dog. Meanwhile, Karl
Dengler, who just moments before was exhibiting hydraulic-type strength, is down and out like a beat-up sack of potatoes.”

Chris shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s with the tortoise and the magician? Why didn’t you just shoot him?” He laughed.
“Just imagine cops everywhere having to hand their guns in because the department decides they’d be better off with turtles.”

Gavin almost smiled and probably would have if he weren’t so beat. What he hated the most right now was that his response
was going to make him sound like Buck. “You can’t
kill
a demon, Chris. They’re eternal. All you can do is imprison them. If I’d shot Dengler, Krogan would have escaped and come
back after me and Amy and Buck, like he’s doing now.”

“The demon can’t just leave a human on its own?”

“Apparently not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Buck told me to read in the Bible where Jesus cast the demons into the pigs and they killed themselves to escape.”

“Did you read it?”

“No.”

Chris smiled, shaking his head. “So then what happened?”

“In short, Dengler goes to jail, the tortoise goes to the zoo, where Buck has a—quote—‘brother in the Lord’ taking care of
it until less than a week ago, when both the caretaker and tortoise are killed in a car accident.”

Chris pointed his glass at Gavin and said, “About the same time Jackhammer Hoban decides to call himself Krogan and your house
gets run over.”

“Not about… exactly the same time. And don’t forget the lobster claw.”

“God forbid.”

Gavin stopped… stared at Chris in silence. “You don’t believe any of this, do you?”

“I believe I’m going to say good-bye to iced tea and hello to Tylenol PM. If I have any dreams tonight, I don’t want to remember
them in the morning.”

“I know the feeling. But come on, Chris. Don’t you think what I’ve told you
proves
Hoban
is
Krogan? How else could a Frisbee with a tortoise on it get anyone that mad?”

“Proves? You’re a cop, Gav. Do I have to remind you what proof is? Forget a judge and jury, just think about handing this
kind of proof to the lieutenant.”

“I’ll settle for
you
at the moment.”

“I’m not your problem. You don’t think the Lieu is going to want some answers when Walter Hess makes his next move and you’re
out trying to arrest a WWX wrestler for sharing the nickname of a guy we already have in jail? You’ll be fired, Gav… and
I don’t want to be enjoying my next meal feeding you in a straight-jacket.”

“But, Chris, how did Hoban know it was me? How did he know I was the one who threw the Frisbee at him? You heard him yell
my name when he threw it back at the crowd,” Gavin pleaded.

Chris paused for a moment, then waved his hands. “Ah, I don’t even know if it
was
your name he yelled, with the screaming and all. You just heard what you wanted to hear. With all that noise, he could’ve
been yelling something else. And why shouldn’t he be mad? He’s in there fightin’ for his life and he gets hit with a Frisbee
from the crowd. The thing could’ve said, ‘I love you’ and he would’ve been screamin’.”

“The problem with you, Chris, is that you don’t want to believe.”

Chris pointed his glass again. “And the problem with you is you
do
believe. Take my advice and forget this demon crap before you get yourself—and probably me too—in deep trouble. And try to
remember what the day after tomorrow is.”

Gavin shrugged. “What’s the day after tomorrow?”

“God help us,” Chris said. “It’s the Fourth of July.”

“Right. I knew that.”

Chris just shook his head.

Gavin had hoped with all his heart that he wasn’t wasting his time… but he was. The day, the late dinner, the stress had
all caught up to him and tomorrow was going to be another busy day. Chris was right about one thing, though: Walter Hess would
be back, and if Gavin were found to be chasing a WWX wrestler when he could be stopping another terrorist attack, he’d lose
his job… and probably for the price of a padded room.