Takedown (19 page)

K
rogan lay facedown on a massage table while two “house therapists,” with names that sounded more like those of pets than people,
worked on his cable-tight muscles. Tight, but not from the fighting. He had been looking forward to this session even before
the competition had begun, but now he could think only of the taunting he’d suffered from that sniveling insect. The same
one who had taunted him in the zoo two years ago. The insolence! To battle his human form like the others would be one thing,
but to know what lived behind the flesh and still mock was quite another… especially in the arena of the unseen. He was surprised
at himself for miscalculating. The destruction of his home and the finding of the lobster claw should have sent Pierce shivering
into a hole of fear. Better this way. More pleasure from seeing him suffer.

There was a knock at the door. One of the therapists opened the door a crack to answer, then stepped back to let Tanya the
Terrible enter. She was still in her painted-on black leathers and looked concerned about something.
Her problem,
he thought.

“Sorry to interrupt, but there are a couple of police officers outside asking about a Harley Davidson motorcycle that someone
took for a test drive earlier today. Apparently, Hempstead Harley thinks that someone was you. I told them they had to be
mistaken, but they insist—”

“I haven’t finished the test. Tell them to leave,” Krogan said, his face still in the face-hole of the table.

“You haven’t finished the… but you can’t just take .… Never mind,” she finally said, then left. A few minutes later she
returned, pulled up a chair and sat down next to his head. He could see her black shoes. Her feet looked uncomfortable, trapped,
cramped, strangled… just like he had been in the tortoise… just like the insect detective would be soon.

“They’re gone, but only because I spoke to the owner and told him the WWX would buy it.”

Krogan didn’t answer. He didn’t care what she was saying. There was only one thing on his mind.

“So in the future, if there’s anything… well, enough of that. What I really wanted to tell you was how great you did tonight.
I mean, I have never… no one has ever seen anything like that… ever. You were amazing. But I was wondering about this Frisbee
that landed in the ring. I mean, it seemed to get you upset and I couldn’t figure…”

While she went on about the Frisbee and the fight, Krogan lifted his head and saw her holding one of them. In his time, Krogan
had had to deal with many “men of God” who had thought themselves up to the task only to end up wishing they had never interfered.
Even Jesus had mentioned to his precious band of misfits that it would take prayer and fasting to deal with him. But never
had someone with so little faith and so little knowledge given him so much trouble. How was he supposed to enjoy this newly
stolen life with such humiliation lurking in his shadows? No. The pleasure of business had to come before the pleasure of
pleasure. He had to get to the root of the problem. He knew
what
the root was, but he didn’t know
where
it was.

“Anyway, enough about this stupid thing,” Tanya said, tossing
the Frisbee away. “Let’s talk about the Krogan phenomenon. When you first came up with the idea for…”

Krogan considered the problem at hand. There were basically three ways to find his prey—not the insect detective, but the
root. The first was from the waterless place between worlds. From there he could communicate to his comrades at will, regardless
of their location. But—and there was a big but—he wasn’t
in
the waterless place, and his comrades wouldn’t be anywhere near his prey because of those pesky angels. So for the moment,
suicide wouldn’t help.

The second way was similar. He could call out to others already in the waterless place. They could look for him and then show
him his prey in a vision. But those angels again. Nothing was harder than dealing with angels in the waterless place. It was
painful enough just being in that blasted, constant light, much less engaged in battle. That left him with his final option.

“… ratings were the highest ever and every indication points to a…”

“Tell them to leave,” Krogan ordered in a deep whisper.

Tanya paused, her face confused. “Them?” she asked, motioning toward the therapists.

“Now.”

Tanya gave them a look, hitched her chin toward the door, and they disappeared. She looked at Krogan and smiled. “So you got
me… alone. If you like, I can pick up where they left off.”

Krogan returned the smile and then held her gaze without blinking. “Come closer,” he said.

She did, slowly. He sat up, locked her eye to eye. She came closer, closer. He gently slid his right hand over and up her
arm, across the top of her shoulder… and around her neck. Her smile vanished as her eyes grew wide with surprise as he tightened
his
grip. But while his grasp was strong enough to hold her rigidly in place, it was not tight enough to restrict the airflow.

“I require your assistance,” Krogan whispered.

Tanya nodded slowly.

“Look into my eyes. See behind them.”

She stared, unblinking.

“My words will be your thoughts.”

Her eyes returned to their normal size, still transfixed on his, as he knew they would be… no longer having a choice… blank
… available.

“You will diligently seek out and find someone for me, then tell me where he is. Do you understand?”

She repeated his instruction.

“You will speak of me to no one about this.”

“I will do as you say.”

“I will now say his name and you will remember it, but speak the name to no one.”

“… speak the name to no one.”

“Reverend Jesse J. Buchanan,” he said, wanting to spit as the words left his mouth.

She repeated the name perfectly.

“When you find him you will report back to me. Do not let him know who you are or what your instructions are.”

“I will find him,” Tanya said.

Krogan smiled, confident her subconscious was deeply branded with his instructions. “Yes, you will find him,” he said assuredly.
“If the insect could find him… so will you.”

G
avin had skipped breakfast, wanting to be at Amy’s bedside when she awoke. He was wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and sneakers.
Not exactly the department standard, but at least the clothes were clean. He slowly pushed open the hospital room door enough
to peek inside.

“Hi, you!” Amy sang cheerfully from her bed.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake yet,” Gavin said, then checked his watch again, wondering if he’d made a mistake. 7:14. “What
are you doing awake?”

“Please, all I’ve been doing for the last two days is sleeping. My eyes popped open about an hour ago, and I’m feeling pretty
good today… thank you for asking,” she said with a smile. “And look.” She waved her arms. “No more tubes or wires!”

“I can see that. Great.” Gavin smiled with an inner trepidation. Her energy was encouraging and scary at the same time. He
could hear the doctor’s voice telling him it was absolutely necessary for her to stay in bed and rest if they were going to
have any shot at having a safe delivery. With her feeling as well as she looked and sounded, he might need to use his handcuffs.

His eye went to the black telephone that sat on the bedside table. He picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone. He saw
the wire leading away and wanted to snip it.

“Come to me,” Amy said, reaching out for Gavin as he drew near.

“Easy now,” he said when she locked her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the lips. He went with it but
then broke for air and said, “I miss you terribly, but—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she said.

Gavin eased himself next to her on the bed before she had a chance to climb out. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend they
were home in their own bed. A home and a bed Amy still believed existed, with a little renovating to do around the front door.
How was he going to tell her… and when? Definitely after the birth.

“It’s so good to hold you,” she whispered. “Why don’t you take me out of here and bring me—”

“We can’t! There’s nothing I would love more, baby, but the doctor made it crystal clear that leaving here before the birth
is not an option. We’re just going to have to deal with it.”

Amy paused silently, then nodded. “Hey!” she said with another sudden burst of enthusiasm and a bright smile. “I have to test
your brain… see if you’re normal.”

“What?”

“Just get me that magazine,” Amy said, motioning to a magazine on a tabletop to his left. “And don’t look at it.”

Gavin retrieved it. “
Get Away
?” he said, reading the title of what looked like an airline travel mag.

“I said don’t look.”

“Sorry.”

Amy flipped through a few pages. “Ah, here it is. Okay, think of a number from one to ten.”

Gavin smiled slightly, then shook his head. “I know this,” he said.

“No you don’t. Just do it. Think of a number.”

“Nine.”

“Think!” Amy said loudly. “I didn’t say ‘tell me.’You
can
think?”

“Okay, I thought of one… I mean, I thought of a number… not one… I mean, it might be one but…”

“Just shut up. None of this requires speaking. If you have a number from one to ten in your head, just nod.”

Gavin nodded.

“Congratulations. Now multiply it by nine.”

“Go on.”

“If the number is a two-digit number, add the digits together.”

“Okay.”

“All right, now subtract five.”

“Subtract five… done.”

“Okay, now listen,” she said, reading. “Determine which letter in the alphabet corresponds to the number you ended up with
… like one equals
A
, two equals
B
, three equals
C
, etcetera.”

“Is that it?”

“Of course not. Did you do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, now think of a country that starts with that letter.”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Go on.”

“Remember the last letter of the name of that country.”

“All right.”

“Think of the name of an animal that starts with that letter.”

“Done. How much longer?”

“Shut up. Now remember the last letter in the name of that animal.”

“Last letter remembered, boss.”

“Okay, now think of a fruit that begins with that letter.”

Gavin sighed. “Should I have been writing this down?”

Amy gave him a look.

“Name of a fruit. Got it.”

“So tell me, Gavin.… Are you thinking of a kangaroo in Denmark eating an orange?”

Gavin’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

Amy laughed. “According to this, ninety-eight percent of people will give that answer. The other two percent will come up
with a koala in Denmark eating an apple or a cat in the Dominican Republic eating a tangerine or tomato, or a few other unlikely
possibilities.”

“But a tomato is a vegetable.”

Amy sighed. “It doesn’t matter, darling dearest. Some people think it’s a fruit. Like some people think you’re a detective
when actually you’re a fruit.”

Gavin was about to reply, but she put her index finger on his mouth and said, “But you’re my fruit, and that’s what makes
you important.” She kissed him. “And sometimes you can be a very sweet fruit,” she said, then kissed him some more.

Gavin felt a familiar tingling sensation. He reached into his pocket for his pager and looked at Chris’s cell phone number
followed by a 9-1-1. He sighed and showed Amy.

“Gotta go?” she said.

Gavin nodded. “Chris wouldn’t use that number lightly,” he said, then gave her another long kiss before putting the pager
back in his pocket.

Amy frowned. “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

Gavin didn’t reply for a moment, then smiled thinly and said, “You’re here, the emergency is out there. How bad can it be?”

On his way out, he glanced again at the telephone. The last thing he wanted was for her to find out on her own. But how long
could he hide the truth from her? Maybe it would be better to just tell her. At least he would be here to comfort her. At
least he could keep her imagination from thinking the worst. But what could be worse than what had actually happened? The
pager vibrated again. Chris… 9-1-1.

Outside the temperature had climbed to the mid-eighties, and
it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. The news had called for a three-day heat wave that would bring temperatures up over a hundred,
with Long Island’s typically high humidity.
Great,
Gavin thought, considering the Fourth of July was tomorrow. When he arrived at the Tiger, he found his cell phone plugged
into the cigarette lighter, charging, just where he’d left it. The black leather seats were hot from the sunlight, a disadvantage
with the top off. He dialed Chris.

“Detective Grella,” Chris answered.

“It’s me, Detective Grella,” Gavin said, wondering when Chris would ever recognize his phone number.

“I know. I just wanted to remind you that one of us is working.”

“My hero. What’s happening?”

“How fast can you be in Old Roslyn?”

“Fast. Five minutes.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you under the viaduct in five.”

“What’s going on?” Gavin said, but Chris was gone. He started the car, but before he pulled away, he dug and dug through his
wallet for that… found it. He punched in the number on the card, set the flashing red light on the dashboard, and drove away,
no siren. Ringing, ringing… then finally…
Aghhh
… a machine.

“Hello, you’ve reached Father Lauer’s answering machine. Sorry I could not be there to answer your call personally but if—
Hello? Hello?”

“Hello,” Gavin said as cars pulled over to the shoulder to let him by. “This is Detective Pierce. I’m looking for Father—”

“Detective! Hi. Thank you for returning my call. I was afraid we might have gotten off on the wrong foot the other night.
You had your hands full—literally—and under all the stress, I may have misunderstood your—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gavin said, not wanting to hear an apology but not knowing exactly what to say next. Was this someone
he could talk to without wasting more precious time? He had this
awful feeling that he was going to be placated by someone who should know about these things but didn’t really, or worse,
didn’t believe demons were really anything more than some sort of conglomerated cosmic
Star Wars
dark-side Force that pinned a soul’s good luck against some bad luck. But he needed to talk to someone, and he wasn’t likely
to find a booklet on “How to Get Rid of Your Demon” on the rotating bookrack at the local supermarket checkout.

“Well, fine, but I believe the question you asked me the other night was a sincere one, and I was hoping we could get together
and talk a little more about it.”

“When?”

“Hmm, let’s take a look at the calendar,” the priest replied. Gavin listened to breathing as the man checked. “How about next
Thursday sometime?”

“How about today?”

“Today! I’m sorry, but I’m booked all morning and then I have a Salt meeting with four pastors at lunch and then immediately
after that I—”

“Where’s the pastors’ lunch?” Gavin interrupted.

There was a moment of silence. “In Glen Head, at a Pastor Benjamin’s house, but—”

“Tell the boys to brush up on their demonology and then buckle your seat belts, Father. I’ll see you at lunch.” Gavin hung
up, wondering what a salt meeting was. He imagined he might be crashing some kind of sanctimonious religious ritual, but then
again, the priest had said it was at lunchtime. Maybe the salt had to do with food.

Gavin buried the gas pedal as he came down the hill on Northern Boulevard, then flew across the half-mile-long Roslyn Viaduct
at over a hundred. The off-ramp curled around and quickly dumped
him in front of a uniformed cop, who was detouring traffic to the left. Gavin gave him a nod and went right.

Under the middle of the bridge, a good quarter mile away, lights were flashing from several squad cars, an ambulance, and
a fire truck.
Busy, busy,
he thought as he pulled the Tiger off the road, deciding not to add to the congestion. He hurried out of the car, pausing
only long enough to warn the pigeons in the bridge’s understructure to mind their manners or be shot. The sound of radios,
diesel engines, and voices echoed about the tall concrete arches that supported the green steel girders above. An aromatic
bouquet of low tide rode on a light breeze.

The Roslyn Viaduct was apparently being used as a roof to keep the weather off all manner of junk below. A tree removal guy
was using a section to dump logs and store equipment in two steel storage containers that looked as if they belonged on the
back of a truck. Farther down were a couple of parked landscaper trucks with another steel container. Gavin wondered just
who owned the land under the bridge. He would have thought it belonged to the county or state. Maybe it did. Maybe these were
just squatters who needed a place to dump their respective loads.

“Gavin,” called Chris from the crowd, waving him over anxiously. He was standing by another steel container. Battleship gray,
apparently painted over rust in some spots. What in the world was going on? He had expected to see another Soldier Guy work
of art. Nearer, he could see the doors had two massive padlocks.

“You should have told me we were playing the firemen in softball; I would have brought my glove,” Gavin said as he walked
up to Chris.

“We suspect this is his,” Chris said, motioning toward the container.

Gavin looked around at the assemblage of manpower and then back at Chris. “You’re suspicions must be pretty strong. Everyone’s
here but the media and Feds. I assume you purposely left them uninvited. We may find them a bit disgruntled at our next picnic.”

“There wasn’t time to notify everyone. Anything useful we find will be made available to them.”

“Uh-huh. How’d you find it?”

“Combination of a website visit and a phone call on a discontinued cell phone. He found the container on Ebay and then worked
out a cash deal on the phone with a company called B S Martin in California.”

“And… they delivered it here.”

“Exactly,” Chris said, his attention drifting to the activity around him as he spoke. “He might be a genius with hand tools,
but he’s no computer wiz.”

“Maybe he just didn’t plan on losing a fingerprint on a pack of cigarettes when he bought the shipping container.”

A voice crackled over Chris’s radio. “No, one’s enough,” Chris said in the radio. “We’re pretty tight in here as it is.”

“So why haven’t you opened it?”

“What?”

“
It
.”

“Oh. We’re waiting for the bomb squad, just in case it’s booby-trapped. The last thing I want is to explain to the lieutenant
why the proper precautions weren’t taken after someone gets blown up,” Chris said, then motioned over Gavin’s shoulder. “Speaking
of the devils… I mean, demons.”

“Very funny,” Gavin answered as he turned to see the bomb squad approach. “So this was your idea?”

“What?”

“The bomb squad… the standby ambulance… the fire truck… the catering truck.”

“What catering truck?” Chris said with alarm.

“Just kidding. Although I could use a coffee and a buttered roll.”

Chris sighed. “Yeah, like I told ya, I just wanted to follow proper procedure. Why?”

“Nothin’. I just hope for your sake something blows up.”

“You’re so sure it won’t?”

“I’d bet my house on it,” Gavin said.

Chris snorted. “Fine, all the change in my pocket against what’s left of your house.”

“Ah, I don’t want to take your money. But think about it. He doesn’t like bombs. He hasn’t used one yet. Whoever opens that
door is more likely to get a suction-cup arrow in the forehead… or a boxing glove in the nose.”

“Then maybe you should open the door, tough guy. I’ll send the bomb squad home.”

“Good idea, but may be too late. He could be watching us right now,” Gavin said, looking around.

“I’ve got eyes on all roads leading to here looking for him. If he gets within a mile in any direction, he’s ours.”