Nightcrawler (5 page)

“Yes ma'am,” the man's Kentuckian drawl was enthusiastic. “I'm James Hunt, I'm a distant cousin of Rita's. A friend of mine, Wayne Gladden, opened up a landscaping company down here in Bowling Green after we graduated high school, and we've done pretty well out here. We've done some work for a few ball clubs across Kentucky and we're kinda looking to expand a tad. Now, I understand you own a chemical company.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” she swiveled her chair and gazed out the window, kicking off her sneakers as she wore her hangout clothes like everyone else on weekends.

“I'm sure you're familiar with the problems they had up on the Jersey Shore recently, with that Hurricane Sandy and the flooding. Now, me and my partner Wayne have been contacting a few of the companies out there about a possible venture, and we have stirred up some interest. It's really in the iffy stage right now, but I think if we all join hands we can make something happen that can make us all some money and revitalize the Jersey Shore community.”

“What'd you have in mind?”

“We were proposing a landscaped chain across the high-risk area. It would not only transform the aesthetics along the shoreline but provide a buffer should flooding or a water hazard occur again in the near future. The only setback is the continuing erosion that has deteriorated the natural soil along the coastline. We're thinking that a specially composed fertilizer used in conjunction with chemically treated soil might be able to accelerate plant growth and stabilize the environment.”

“So you want me to develop fertilizer?”

“Miss Brooks, if we can put together a solid proposal, I'm thinking your end will be about five million dollars.”

“Uh, yeah,” she said nonchalantly, frantically scrambling through her desk drawer for a pen and paper. “I'd like to get together with my partner and my research team and look at that. Do you think you can put together a proposal with some figures so we can see if it's doable on our end?”

“Most certainly, Miss Brooks. Let me give you my e-mail address and I'll send you all the details.”

“Sounds great,“ she scribbled it down. “I'll send you a ping, and you'll have mine.”

“You know, I just wanted to say that Rita told me about the challenges you were facing as a female CEO. Anyone who could go out and do what you did for little Emma has more sand than ninety percent of the men I know. I'd trust you with a multimillion dollar project anytime.”

“Did she tell you about the problem we had with that man and the thing on the news?”

“What man?” he scoffed before hanging up. “You call that a man?”

Sabrina was beside herself with exaltation and wanted to dance with joy. She wanted to run in and tell Jon but knew the best thing to do was look everything over and do the groundwork first. She wanted to firm up everything and make sure all the connections were solid. She would then call everyone in for a board meeting, just like her father would have done.

She would wait until then to tell Hoyt, and they would do something nice to celebrate.

She also realized that she had to keep from pressing too hard with Hoyt. She did not want to appear too pushy or make it looking like she needed a shoulder to cry on. She knew she may have been presumptuous in asking him to church, but it was something that had to be addressed. If he could not accept her as a churchgoer, then it would not work regardless of how much she liked him. At least they got past that, and all she could hope was that God would keep him out of harm's way this weekend.

“Sabrina?” Ryan reappeared in her doorway. “Gee, you're in a good mood.”

“Oh, well, it's Saturday,” she beamed. “Whatcha got?”

“I got in touch with my friend and told him what was happening. He says he'll talk to you,” Ryan came over and put an envelope on her desk. “You know, I'm starting to suspect that they're planning to launder my own money through my own connection. Suppose they're getting everything in place to make me come up with a large sum, then run it through the Fund to make it look like I was moving my own money? If they stepped away, they'd make it look like I was misappropriating my own money.”

“You know, that's a clever idea, but I think they're planning something just a little bit bigger,” she assured him. “I'll give your friend a call.”

Bree phoned Ryan's friend and agreed to meet him at Starbucks near NYU in an hour. She stopped in to Jon's office before preparing to leave.

“Don't forget, you've got that meeting with Tom Durham on Monday,” he reminded her. “I'm still willing to go in your place, or tag along with you if you like.” He still wore semi-casual clothes despite the fact everyone else was wearing jeans and sneakers. Jon's idea of casual was his corduroy blazer and loafers.

“You're making it sound like we're dead in the water either way, so what difference does it make?” she leaned against the doorframe.

“Well, it's just that he's an old-school construction guy, he's got that hardcore macho mentality,” Jon steepled his fingers. “His idea of a power lunch is going down to a bar along the docks for beers and a game of pool. He's held a few important interviews at the shooting range, and he invites lots of his business associates to the gym with him. He liked your Dad because of the kind of man your father was, the way he carried himself. I don't think it's going to have a thing to do with you as a person, or wanting to continue doing business with BCC. He's just not going to be comfortable talking business with a woman. Your Dad didn't dare send Ryan or Rick to meet him, you could imagine what that would have been like.”

“Tell you what,” Sabrina came over to Jon's desk. “I don't want you brooding over this and having it spoil your weekend. Can you get him on the phone?”

Jon shrugged, then punched in a number and handed the phone to her.

“Tom Durham.”

“Hi, Tom, it's Sabrina Brooks at BCC, how're you doing?”

“Just fine, young lady. I suppose we're still set for Monday?”

“Sure are. I was kinda wondering if you'd like to meet me over at the McBurney YMCA on 14
^th
Street.”

“Why, uh, sure.”

“Do you have a pen? I can give you directions.”

“No, I know where that is. I've been to the Judo Club there a couple of times.”

“Great. See you then.”

“Sabrina?” Jon exhaled after she hung up.

“Yeah?”

“Have a good weekend,” he said dismissively, waving her off.

“See you Monday,” she said merrily, prancing out the door.

Nat Osprey was a tall, bespectacled man who affably greeted Sabrina when she spotted him in his gray sports coat at Starbucks. They retired to a rear table where he explained his situation to her.

“Ryan and I called it quits a couple of years ago,” Nat explained. “He wasn't able to make a commitment because he was married. It was before he started seeing Rick. We were seeing each other for about six months until we agreed the relationship wasn't going anywhere. We were both married, and we had too much to lose by trying to sneak around after work. We're still good friends, though, and when he explained to me what was happening, I told him I would try to help.”

“You're going to be our best chance at finding these people,” Sabrina assured him. “What I'm expecting is for them to try the connection after Ryan gives them the number and the access codes. They'd be fools to wait until the last minute. They'll probably try it once from an untraceable number, probably from a disposable cell phone. They'll try again from their secure line the day they're planning the transfer. They expect the transfer to take place in a matter of minutes, but hopefully it'll never happen. Here's my cell number. When you get the trace, just text your name in with the number. No one'll ever know you'd given it to me.”

“Okay,” he seemed slightly nervous. “If anyone ever finds out about this, my career is over. I've got a wife and four

kids as well as elderly parents to take care of.”

“Have you and your wife made up?” she could not help herself. “Is everything okay at home now?”

“Everything's always been good with me and my wife,” he replied quizzically. “We married as a matter of convenience. We both come from good families, we both have degrees, and our kids have a great future ahead of them. She doesn't meet all my sexual needs, and I think she's come to terms with that. She never had much of a desire in the first place, she's more of a breeder than a lover. I guess it's hard for a straight person to understand.”

“I guess not,” Sabrina agreed.

“Gotta go, dinner's at six,” he looked at his watch. “Got some other stops to make. I'll put an SOS in front of my number if I come across anything.”

“Cool beans,” she smiled.

It was about six hours later when Nat Osprey, working from his home that evening, sent her an SOS with his number on it. She called him immediately and he gave her a phone number that would set off a cataclysmic chain of events in NYC.

She went to her knees in prayer and asked the Lord for guidance. When she asked for an alternative and none appeared to her, she could think of but one solution.

The Nightcrawler would return to action.

It was determined that the foiled attack had been designed to take advantage of a shift in trade winds that would have carried the anthrax powder across the shore into the Wall Street area. Analysts estimated that as much as ninety five percent of the germs would have dissipated along the harbor, but the highly potent virus strain would have contaminated the Statue itself. Any anthrax that would have survived the journey across the river would have been highly toxic and could have easily started a minor outbreak.

The State prosecution found itself immediately on the defensive as the terrorists' ACLU lawyers charged that their gay rights had been violated in uncovering the plot. The women, Lana Harper and Mindy Harris, had accessed a secured phone line to the Gotham AIDS Fund before the attack. The ACLU charged that their privacy had been violated, and the Nightcrawler had somehow traced the call in order to discover their identities. Moreover, the vigilante was able to hack the women's personal computer to steal information that led to the attack against them at the Statue of Liberty.

Both Harper and Harris maintained that they had been scammed by a group calling itself the Octagon that met them at the Statue with a briefcase full of travelogues that would enable them to sell tourist packages to visitors. Somehow the terrorists had switched the suitcase with them, and the women were attacked by the Nightcrawler in the Statue's torch where they were framed for the crime.

Officer Hoyt Wexford, who was on duty at the scene of the crime, had been given a taped confession by the Nightcrawler shortly after the incident ended. The ACLU, after a medical examination, obtained evidence that an experimental drug called DAT-KO had been used on the women to disable them and extract their confessions. It was determined that the gas had decreased their mental responsiveness with its shock effect on their dopaminergic systems. It acted as a sophisticated truth serum that left them defenseless against the Nightcrawler's interrogation.

Harper and Harris were being held without bail at the Attica Correctional Facility awaiting trial for terrorism under the New York Anti-Terror Laws. The NYPD, though having an all-points alert out on the Nightcrawler, were exultant over the intel provided on the tape given Wexford by the vigilante. They had made copies of it as well as electronic transcripts, and though the ACLU had the tape handed over to the court, the info was distributed throughout the Department's databases. A SWAT team had descended on the warehouse hideout of the Octagon shortly after the women gave up the location, but it had been deserted hours before their arrival.

Sabrina Brooks had been so shaken by the incident that she nearly called off from work the next day. She had suffered multiple contusions during the series of events that occurred on Sunday, and had barely made it back to the family manor in one piece. She felt so bad that she switched off her cell phone and her land line, and laid on her couch in the dark until the pounding on the front door forced her to respond late Sunday evening.

“Hello, Hoyt,” she managed as she opened the door. She was so exhausted and sore that she had not even smoothed her hair out before answering.

“Bree,” he was surprised by her disheveled appearance. He was just as wearied himself, having experienced one of the longest days in his career though casually dressed in his undercover attire. “I've been calling you for hours. I thought something was wrong, you've never left your cell phone off before. I'm sorry for coming over like this, but I got worried about you.”

“No, I'm fine, just a little bit under the weather,” she assured him. “Come on in.”

He was greatly concerned as she walked with a heavy limp to the wall switch to the enormous chandelier illuminating the Spanish-style living room. He sat in an armchair across from her as she lowered herself painfully onto the couch.

“Geez, were you in an accident? What happened?”

“Well, yeah, kind of,” she tried to explain. “There was a bird stuck up on the roof, it looked like he hurt his wing. Stupid me, I went and got a ladder and climbed up to get him. When I went to pick him up he started flapping his wings and managed to fly off. I got startled and rolled right off the roof. I guess all that rolling around on the mat came in handy, but I kinda sprained my leg.”

“You got to be more careful, doll. I guess you haven't watched any TV today, huh?”

“No, I've been feeling pretty bad,” she managed a smile.

“That Nightcrawler guy turned up again at the Statue of Liberty,” he studied her face intently. “You wouldn't believe how it went down. It just so happened I had been assigned there to keep an eye on the crowd in case there was any activity.”

“Oh my gosh,” Sabrina's eyes widened. “Are you okay? Was there a problem?”

“Well, yeah,” he rubbed his chin. “Matter of fact, a couple of women showed up at the Statue with a satchel filled with a concentrated anthrax powder. They went up to the torch and were going to dump the powder over the side. They were expecting the wind to blow it into the Wall Street area. The Department thinks it was more of a calculated threat than anything since there's no way in hell the powder could've carried that far. Anyway, the Nightcrawler found out about it somehow and stopped them from dumping the powder. He also got a taped statement from them which he personally handed to me before going back up into the torch.”

“So did everything go okay? Did you get in trouble for not arresting him?”

“Actually I pulled my weapon and ordered him to stop but he kept on running up the steps. My only option was to shoot him in the back. I followed him up just as a helicopter with a rope ladder had come for the terrorists. He jumped on the ladder, and when they saw what happened they tried to cut him loose. I cuffed the terrorists and called for backup, and while I did, the Nightcrawler went into the river. By the time the patrol boats arrived, he disappeared. The Coast Guard is still searching for a body, but I'm betting he got away.”

“My gosh, you must be up for some kind of reward for arresting those terrorists,” she gushed happily. “Now you're my hero, that's for sure.”

“The big problem right now is the Nightcrawler, believe it or not. He used some kind of nerve gas on the terrorists to get their statement. Plus he used an illegal trace to tap into their computer system to find out about the attack. Right now they're looking for him as if he was one of the terrorists.”

“Isn't that something,” she shook her head. “Well, you'll probably never hear from him again. He'd be crazy to come back out again after something like that.”

“You know, what was really crazy was when he came down that stairwell. The security people were keeping the tourists back after I flashed my badge when the stuff hit the fan. I got this weird feeling of déjà vu, almost like I knew this guy. You know like when you're in a crowd and one of your friends or family are there, and even though you can't see them you know they're there? Well, it was kinda like that.”

“Wow, I'll bet that sure was something,” she nodded.

“Bree?”

“Yeah?”

“You wouldn't know who that Nightcrawler is, if it's one of the guys?”

“Why, no! Why would you think that?”

“Well, the thing about the chemical weapons. There's no way you would let anyone have anything like that, even if they were using it for good.”

“I kinda hate to bust your bubble there, fellow,” she chuckled, “but one of the girls from church had a relative call me the other day, and we're discussing a contract to develop a fertilizer. I'm afraid we're not quite at the chemical weapon level just yet.”

“I'm sorry,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, falling back in his chair. “My mind's turning to mush, I don't know what I'm thinking. They took me downtown and grilled me like I was one of the gang. I had to repeat the story to my sergeant, then the lieutenant, and finally to Captain Willard. I filled out so many forms I think I got carpal tunnel. They had the FBI and Homeland Security over at Police Plaza trying to make our guys look like the Keystone Kops. I went through so many changes today it was unreal. Not to mention finding this place.”

“That's okay. Let me make you something to eat.”

“No, I gotta go,” he pushed himself to his feet. “I'm beat to heck. I'm gonna have trouble keeping my eyes open. Good thing there's hardly any traffic.”

“How about some coffee?”

“Next time. How about Wednesday? I can come by and meet you after work, I'll buy you dinner.”

“Sounds great,” her eyes twinkled as she hobbled to the door alongside him.

“You take care of yourself, okay,” he smiled, her face angelic in the moonlight.

“You too.”

He took her by the shoulders gently and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes and felt her heart skip a beat as he waved and trotted down the brick pathway across the lawn to his Lexus.

It would be so much easier to go to sleep now, with cotton candy clouds floating around her head and Hoyt Wexford as her guardian angel.

When she came to work the next day, she found that Ryan Hoffman had called off and that Jon Aeppli had been trying to call her at home. She had called the answering service to get her messages, and decided to weed through the clot of messages on her voicemail at the office. Her left leg was black and blue and she could barely move her left arm, but she rubbed herself down with Ben-Gay before going in to face the music.

She wore a pants suit for a change, normally favoring her Neiman Marcus skirt suits which showed off her legs and were much cooler throughout the day. Today her left leg looked like purple haze, and it would probably be a couple of days before she tried a dress suit with opaque nylons. It was exceedingly difficult to walk without a limp, and she decided on wearing flat heels which was another anomaly for her.

“Morning, Jon.”

“Have a seat. Close the door,” his gold-rimmed glasses were balanced on the end of his sloped nose as he looked down at his paperwork.

“Hey, I thought I was the boss around here,” she managed a chuckle.

“You're gonna be running this place all by yourself pretty soon,” he stared up at her.

“What?” she took a shot at playing dumb.

“I thought we agreed there would be no more Nightcrawler.”

“Jon, I didn't have a choice. I got some reliable information that terrorists were planning an attack on the Wall Street area. If I would've called it in, it would've gone viral and the terrorists would've saved the anthrax weapon for a rainy day. I took a chance and managed to take out the terrorists. The Government knows about the Octagon now. Homeland Security will find these guys without the Nightcrawler. I'm done now for good.”

“So am I. Sabrina, I was at the hospital when you were born. Your father let me hold you when they brought you home, and I'll never forget that look in his eye. He had that look when you graduated grade school and high school, and when you enrolled at NYU. You and your Mom were the most important things in his life, more important than this Company. I'm not gonna stay here and keep this place open after you're gone. There'd be no sense in it.”

“I'm begging you, you can't leave. I'd be suicidal,” her eyes grew moist.

“And you're not now?” he tossed his glasses onto the desk. “The police estimated that the Nightcrawler plummeted three hundred and fifty feet into the East River after being cut loose from the terrorists' helicopter. How's your leg feeling?”

“Well, I made it to work.”

“I suppose you told that undercover officer you've been seeing. I heard he was the one you gave that taped confession to.”

“No, you're the only one who knows. He'd probably stop seeing me if he knew.”

“He'd probably force you to seek psychiatric treatment. Speaking of which, have you heard anything about those women you gassed?”

“Who, those killers?” she flared.

“Sabrina, you cannot use DATKO on the field, not in that untested state. It's extremely dangerous. You might cause someone permanent brain damage.”

“Jon, we're talking about people who were about to unleash a dirty bomb near the Wall Street area. Don't you think there's an opportunity cost to be considered?”

“There's just too much on the table here,” he exhaled. “I can't be a part of this.”

“So you're gonna walk away and leave me hanging with Tom Durham's project? And what about the e-mail I sent you about James Hunt's project?”

“What about it?” he challenged her. “You're supposed to meet Tom Durham at the YMCA at noon.”

“Yeah. So?”

“You know how much your father hated that answer with that tone of voice? I'm starting to see why.”

“Okay, so if I go, and I get the contract, will you stay and help?”

“I'll say this. I've buried your mother and I buried your father. I am not going to bury you, and I'd see you in prison before I watch you get yourself killed. You need to understand that.”

“So you won't snitch on me this time?”

“Go on,” he waved his hand as if dismissing an unruly student, waving his hand. “Get out of here. Tell Tom Durham I said hello.”

“I sure will,” she bit her lip as she got up on her bad leg.

“And another thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I hope he knocks you on your ass.”

Sabrina drove out to the YMCA at noon and met with Tom Durham. He was a powerfully-built man at 5'9”, 210 pounds, his thick black hair and mustache graying along the sides. He was taken aback when she suggested they work out together, and even more so when she mentioned putting on the gloves.

“They ran me off from the YMCA in Chinatown, so I figured I'd give this place a try, especially since they have the judo team,” she said amiably. “I was hoping we could just move around, I wouldn't want you to take my head off.”

“Okay,” he grunted reluctantly. “Now, do you have one of those catcher's chest guards, or one of them armored bras? You're kinda big on top, you know.”

“Ye—ah,” she raised an eyebrow. “You got your noseguard, you know, your cup? You might be kinda big downstairs, I can't tell.”

They went in and signed up, then changed clothes and met in the open floor area by the mats. A couple of attendants looked over and decided that the older man had brought his daughter in to teach her how to defend herself. They were left to themselves, though more than one visitor was surprised at the intensity of the session. After about a half hour, both boxers noticed the time and mutually agreed to hit the showers.