Takedown (15 page)

K
rogan pushed open the glass door of the Harley Davidson dealer and went directly to the bike displayed in the window. He had
never seen anything like it, ever. The seat was cut low like other Harleys, but that was where the similarities ended. The
entire bike was a raw, anodized aluminum—not a metallic silver paint but real metal, like a stainless-steel knife. He envisioned
himself riding it at a hundred-sixty or more. The vision excited him.

“Help ya?” said a deep voice from behind.

“I want this,” Krogan said, focused on his own reflection in the glistening alloy gas tank.

“Yeah, well, who doesn’t? The V-Rod’s the hottest bike on the market. It’s just awesome.”

Krogan turned to face the man, middle-aged, long gray beard, tattoos on his forearms, black Harley T-shirt over a gut, black
pants over black boots. He reminded Krogan of so many others he had killed, usually for their bikes. “I wanna ride this.”

“Hey, wait a minute… aren’t you Jackhammer Hoban? Yeah, yeah… I read about you in today’s paper. Full-page ad. You’re gonna
fight in that Armageddon thing tonight, and you’re gonna challenge anyone. A million dollars to anyone who can beat you. That’s
wild, man. Wild.” The man shook his head. “Also read you changed your name to Krogan, like that psycho. Sweet move… I like
that. But, hey, looking at you in person, I think it’ll be a hard
million to earn. I saw you on Monday night’s title fight. Man, oh man, did you whip Tyrant’s butt! And I heard it was real,
that you threw the script out. Is that true?”

“The bike,” Krogan growled, his glare removing the salesman’s grin.

“Oh, right. What did you want, a test ride? In your case I’ll waive the usual formalities and hook you right up. Not like
we don’t know where to find ya,” he said with a laugh. “Just take it down Peninsula Boulevard a little ways. There’s an open
area a half mile down for you to check it out. If you like it, are you thinking of buying one today?”

“I want it now.”

“Uh, yeah… sure… great. I can do that. I’ll, uh, have one brought around front and—”

“Now.”

The salesman stepped backward, almost tripping over his feet as he hurried away. A moment later he reappeared with a few other
salespeople behind him, all looking at Krogan.

“Here we go, Mister, uh, Krogan,” the salesman said, pointing through the glass where a V-Rod was standing, another employee
at its side.

Krogan exited and straddled the bike, the bright alloy finish flashing in the sunlight.

“Okay, now,” the salesman said, all chummy-like. “The key goes right here and, uh, you’re gonna need a helmet. I’ll be back
in one second.”

Krogan kicked the shifter into neutral and turned the key. The engine started instantly. He pulled in the hand clutch, kicked
the gearshift down to first, and revved the engine. A moment later he was gone.

Two hours passed before Krogan blazed into Nassau Coliseum’s parking lot on the V-Rod. The odometer read one hundred sixty-eight
miles—eighty-seven more than when he had left the showroom, five of those miles collected off the road. The once pristine
machine was scratched and soiled with sand, straw, grass, and mud.

Krogan passed a gaggle of fans who had gathered early to see their heroes arrive. They pointed and screamed at him as he turned
down the ramp to the coliseum’s massive lower level. Coliseum security recognized him and waved him in as he downshifted.
Once inside, he screeched to a skidding stop and then stepped off the bike, letting it fall to the ground like a child would
an old bicycle at a playground.

He didn’t know what time it was and didn’t care. It was still light out and the fight wouldn’t start until dusk.

“Hey, Hoban!” called a loud voice as he passed by the weight room. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant Krogan,” the voice said sarcastically,
then laughed.

Krogan stopped in his tracks and turned back, stepping into the room, where a dozen wrestlers were pumping up for the event.
That is, until he walked in. Most of them stopped and looked up at him. The scene reminded him of another time long ago.

“A million freaking dollars… and no script to protect you?” a belligerent voice hollered, the same voice that had called
his host’s name a moment ago. Krogan’s host knew the man as Malcolm “The Mountain” Murchison. The WWX had hired him six months
ago after he’d won the World’s Strongest Man contest, where the contestants carry cars and boulders. The WWX was bringing
him along and had plans to make him one of their new superstars. In the weight room, Murchison was a giant among giants. “When
we fight, I will not need three minutes against a has-been like you. Tyrant wasn’t expecting you to—”

Murchison continued his ranting, but Krogan’s attention went
to one of three television sets suspended from the ceiling. All were tuned to different stations, but all were showing the
same event, albeit from different angles. With music coming over the weight room’s sound system, the TV volume had been turned
off and close captioning scrolled at the bottom of each set’s picture of what looked like a capsized boat. Krogan read the
captions just long enough to realize the same guy who had derailed the train was being blamed for flipping the boat. He marveled
at how such a feat could have been accomplished and again found himself envious of a host with such creativity.

“Agggghhhhh,” roared another wrestler working out on the bench press. Hoban had known him as Kamehameha, a powerful Hawaiian
wrestler who’d named himself after the first Hawaiian king. The Olympic steel bar was bending under the dunnage of four plates
per side totaling four hundred five pounds. Once, twice, three times. Veins popping, muscles bulging, eyes screaming, the
Hawaiian finally allowed the hefty bar clang to rest in the forks.

Suddenly Krogan wanted to feel the blood flow and the muscles harden… something he had missed while imprisoned in the cursed
tortoise. He walked over to the bench, where the wrestler had sat up, resting for his next set.

“Leave,” Krogan commanded.

Kamehameha looked at him indignantly. “Say what?”

Krogan locked onto his eyes, holding him motionless with his gaze.
“Hele, hemu lapuwale,”
he said, in the wrestler’s ancient native language calling him a fool and telling him to leave at once.

Kamehameha’s eyes widened with surprise. “How do you know—”

“Hemu!”
Krogan ordered.

The Hawaiian wrestler turned pale and slowly moved away without a word.

Krogan settled under the bar. Without the usual ritual of
stretching, warming up with lesser weights, and making sure of balanced hand placement, he lifted the load off the rest with
a grunt and lowered it to within an inch of his chest. Krogan tested Hoban’s natural strength and enjoyed the pain of the
straining muscles along with the increased heart rate. Breathing and surging adrenaline from his host’s fear of not being
able to get the weight back up if he held it to his chest any longer was a problem his host would soon learn not to concern
himself with. He would teach Hoban to expect supernatural strength. Then someday, in all likelihood, Krogan would use his
host’s newfound confidence to kill him. In the meantime, he would burn him out physically and mentally like spiritual LSD
and when—

“Nobody walks away from me while I’m talking to them and lives to tell about it,” Malcolm “The Mountain” Murchison said, straddling
Krogan as he lay on the bench, Murchison’s massive hands gripping the bar, pushing downward. “Whether I kill you now or in
the ring makes no difference to me.”

Krogan cursed at him, which made Murchison push harder.

“I… can’t… breathe,” Krogan gasped, the bar now deeply creasing his chest.

“So then don’t,” Murchison said, grinning.

Krogan’s panicked expression transformed slowly, eerily into a smile. Murchison leaned into him until he was pushing with
all his weight. Krogan continued to smile until he finally puckered his lips and threw him a mock kiss and said, “I’m sorry
I wasn’t paying attention to you.” He then thrust the barbell away, sending both the weight and Murchison backward to the
floor. In a flash Krogan was on him, their roles completely reversed. Murchison cried out in pain as Krogan shoved the barbell
into his chest. “Now, what is it you were saying?”

A moment later, Krogan walked out of the weight room, leaving Malcolm “The Mountain” Murchison curled in fetal position on
the floor, coughing spasmodically, while the other wrestlers looked on, stunned. He walked through a rising hallway that emptied
into the arena. The festivities would not start for another few hours. WWX stage crews were setting up microphones, tables,
and cameras, testing sound levels and checking light switches. Spurts of heavy-metal music were coming on and off. WWX security
personnel in black-and-white shirts wandered about with walkietalkies.

“Hoban the man!” said one of the stagehands to Krogan, holding up his hand for a high-five.

Krogan ignored the man as he walked by. He did not want to be liked, much less engage in some ritual with a menial drone.
His audience would be unseen to human eyes. He would give an exhibition for all those who despised the creator and his precious
creation. He would be an example to some of his less-than-ruthless comrades of how easily darkness can dominate. He would
take and enjoy. Play with the creation like a cat would a bird with a broken wing.

He climbed to the upper seats of the coliseum, sat down, and gazed into the empty arena. In the center of the ceiling was
a circle of twelve large lights focused only on the ring below. He stared at the lights, like glowing numbers on a giant clock,
until his mind started to drift to another time. The intermittent music and the voices of stagehands fell to the background,
then into silence. The workers’ motions slowed until he saw no movement at all. Downward light beams formed from the twelve
lights, stretching until they reached the floor surrounding the ring. Out of the quiet he heard faint cheers that grew louder
and louder. The twelve beams of light became solid stone pillars topped with robust flames spewing thick black smoke. The
pillars moved farther apart, separating, until they encompassed the entire floor before the seats.

The vision became clear. The ring was gone. He saw the crowds
and their attire. The torchlit floor of battle was muddy and sticky, almost waxy, and he remembered its being called a
keroma
. A dozen or more naked men stood with him at one side of the arena while two men fought in the middle. The fight would continue
without break until one of the men surrendered by raising a right hand with a pointed index finger. There were no other rules,
no weight distinctions. The men would battle in any way they wanted, without clothes or weapons. Meanwhile, Krogan waited
impatiently for his turn. The fighting was fierce by their standards, but he would change the standards.

The crowd cheered as one of the naked men overpowered the other, choking and punching until the sign of surrender was finally
given.

A man in white, draping clothes entered the
keroma,
holding a parchment list of names at his side as the two fighters, soiled and bloody, were helped away by guards, one walking,
the other carried. The man in white called for the next two contestants. “Talus. Krogan.”

Krogan and his opponent stepped forward. Krogan’s host was not as big as the seasoned Talus, and had never been in the
keroma
before. His only reputation was as a soldier who liked to drink and fight with anyone, anytime. The crowd knew him well,
hated him, and wanted him soundly beaten. Two other men, also draped in white, hurried over, sprinkled olive oil on the contestants’
bodies as an anointing, dusted them with white powder to make them easier to grasp, then scurried away. The man with the name
list ordered Krogan and Talus to face each other in the center of the
keroma,
then signaled them to commence.

At the signal, Krogan smiled and Talus attacked. Talus’s initial surge and grasp sent the crowd wild with anticipation. A
moment later,Talus lay facedown in the mud, dead, his neck broken.
Too easy,
Krogan thought. After the limp body was carried away, he remained,
demanding to fight again. The crowd agreed and the moderator complied. He allowed the next fight to last longer. Krogan enjoyed
the pain of the ensuing fights, and by day’s end, he had defeated all his opponents, leaving most of them dead.

As Krogan enjoyed his vision of that first day in the
keroma,
he remembered how he ruled the games for the next year and a half, until finally he was ambushed and killed in his sleep
by a small mob of previously defeated opponents. He also remembered coming back in a new host and slaughtering each of his
murderers in
their
sleep before leaving Athens for a newly founded city called Rome.

His vision moved ahead in time, nearly two hundred years. He was back in Athens again with a new host, this time as a spectator.
The arena looked exactly the same, but the fighting was much different. Now it was part of the Olympic games, and rules had
been implemented for safety.

As the Olympic battles began to fade out in Krogan’s vision, the world of the WWX reappeared. The music sound levels were
still being tested, stagehands were still adjusting microphones and wheeling in equipment, and men in business suits were
standing by the ring talking.

Krogan closed his eyes and thought again about the way he had repaid the ones who had ambushed him in his sleep. Even though
they didn’t realize whom they were really dealing with, he had needed to avenge himself. Now he considered how much more he
should repay Pierce and Buchanan for casting him into that blasted tortoise. They did indeed know what they were dealing with,
which would make their terror all the more enjoyable.

G
avin hammered the elevator’s “Close Door” button with his index finger. He would have preferred the stairs, but he didn’t
know where they were. Amy’s room was on the third floor. Her new room. He had tried calling her directly as soon as he left
Buck at Delhi Hospital, but there had been no answer. He eventually found out they had changed her room and were keeping the
phone off, hoping she would get rest. They were unable to give her painkillers because of the baby.

The elevator door finally closed. On the way up he thought again of how he had wanted to stop off at Buck’s neighbor’s house
to see how Samantha was faring with the Quinns, but quickly reminded himself he couldn’t possibly do that. He simply didn’t
have the time… again.

The elevator stopped at the second floor. Two doctors casually entered, then alertly held the door as it started to close.

“Thank you,” said an orderly in green hospital garb.

They all seemed to be moving at half speed. Gavin pressed the “Close Door” button again. Was everyone in the hospital on drugs?
He watched for the third-floor button to light up.
Ding.
While the door was still opening, Gavin was already out, searching for room numbers. Three-ten, three-twelve… there it was,
three-sixteen. He went inside without hesitation.

Amy’s closed eyes opened as Gavin approached the bed.

“Where have you been?” she said weakly. “We were worried,” she said, holding her belly.

“Don’t ever worry about me. How are you feeling? How’s the baby?”

“We’re okay. My muscles are sore… everywhere, but they don’t seem very concerned about that, so I’m not. They gave us some
Tylenol, but no codeine. I’ll be fine, but you were gone all day. Where were you?”

“Working. The same terrorist that derailed the train has capsized the ferry out of Glen Cove. I called the hospital and they
told me they wanted you to rest.”

“I heard about the ferry. Chris came by earlier, looking for you.”

“He found me.”

Amy paused for a moment, staring straight into his eyes. “What did Buck say?”

Gavin was speechless. He would have to yell at Chris first, then kill him. “How did you know I saw Buck?”

“I didn’t.”

The room suddenly felt much smaller. “I wanted to tell him about the truck going into the house before he heard it from someone
else.”

“Like who?”

“Like you.”

“You couldn’t call him?”

“I had promised him I’d look in on Samantha and thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. I wanted to make sure—”

“Don’t,” Amy interrupted.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t lie to me. You don’t want me to worry, so you’re only telling me what you think I want to hear.”

Gavin paused, then shook his finger at her and kissed her gently
on the lips. “Nice try. But I’m only telling you the truth. Buck doesn’t need any more stress and neither do you.”

Amy gave him a long look. “And Jeremy?”

Two birds flew by the window. If it were springtime, the male would probably be the one chasing the female, but now that the
courtship was over, eggs hatched, and the kids out of the nest, Gavin figured the female was chasing the male. “What about
Jeremy?”

“Did you check up on him? Is Jeremy still… with us?”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “No, I did not check up on the tortoise. The first thing Buck told me was not to worry, that Jeremy
was fine. If anything happened, he would be the first to know and he would call us immediately.”

Amy’s expression didn’t change.

“But—” He held up his hands in surrender. “—if it will make you feel better, I’ll try to get to the zoo tomorrow.”

“Try?”

“If I knew the terrorist’s schedule, I could be more definite.”

Amy smiled and Gavin relaxed. He was home free… for now. “When do I get a phone?” she wanted to know.

“They don’t want you to be disturbed.”

“Well, then, they’d better get me a phone soon, or I’ll be plenty disturbed.”

“Fine, I’ll tell them on my way out. Is there someone you want me to contact?”

“Yes. Larry. I’d like to make sure he’s okay and find out what he thinks about the damage.”

Great,
Gavin thought as he nodded. “Okay, Larry. Anyone else?”

“Yes,
everyone
else. Please, Gavin. Just tell them to get me a phone or I’ll go down there myself.”

Gavin agreed, then gave her a good-bye kiss and left. On the
way out he told the nurse to order the phone. “Starting tomorrow… as late as possible.”

When Gavin drove out of the hospital parking lot, he surprised himself by remembering to turn his cell phone back on and then
looked at his watch. 5:46. He called the Nassau Coliseum and found out the WWX Armageddon show would start at seven-thirty.
He considered the errands he needed to run and figured he would get there a little late if he hurried. What else was new?

On his way down Old Country Road to police headquarters he passed a Sports Authority. A quarter mile later he pulled a U-turn
and went in. Sneakers, tennis rackets, footballs, golf clubs, women’s sportswear, baseball jerseys…
Where are they?
Bicycles, guns, fishing poles, pogo sticks, swimwear, beach balls…
Ahh
.

Ten minutes later he was back on the road again with four orange Frisbees. With any luck the homicide department would be
empty.

Gavin turned on the radio to find every station updating the ferry sabotage. The unofficial report on one station from an
anonymous source claimed police were looking for a member of a neo-Nazi religious cult. He wondered where they’d gotten that
from. He could just picture the lieutenant with a phone on each ear, his beeper and cell phone both ringing, wondering where
his man Pierce was. He would just have to remind him that Amy was in the hospital because his house had been run over by a
cement truck. Now there was an excuse he’d never used before. He fished for his phone to call Chris, but then thought better
of it. At this point Chris would have some new questions he wouldn’t be able to answer, at least not truthfully, and he didn’t
know how much longer he could keep lying to people. It was not something he was very practiced in.

A few minutes later Gavin was behind his desk at Homicide waiting for his computer to boot up. The red number light on his
voice mail was blinking. Forty-two messages. He imagined ten belonging to the lieutenant and Chris—hopefully nine from the
lieutenant and only one from Chris. The rest would be split between the media, FBI, and false leads on the terrorist. He paused
for a moment with the notion that one of the leads could be true… or that the terrorist
himself
might have called… Oh, well. Later.

He looked around and was relieved to be alone. He figured everyone was on the North Shore combing for evidence. The new computer
he had received from the department, along with everyone else in Homicide, looked out of place on his World War I vintage
desk. To the detectives in Homicide the new computers fanned the flame of new hopes… two of which were high above all others.
One, that maybe within the next decade or so they’d be networked with other counties, even states, to share records without
the help of the Feds. Two, and more important, that the next money spent might go to fix the air conditioning.

He jumped as the phone rang. He reflexively reached for the receiver, but then withdrew his hand. How much more important
would message forty-three be than all the others compared with how awkward it would be to talk to either the lieutenant or
Chris. He watched the computer continue to boot up, loading the antivirus program. He drummed his fingers, listening to his
own voice answer with the promise to get back as soon as possible. He turned the volume down.

But what if it was Amy trying to somehow reach him. His cell phone never had good reception in this place. “Aghhh,” he said
aloud. He turned the volume back up.

“Hello, Detective Pierce? This is Father Lauer. I was the priest at the train derailment. Please call me at six-seven-four-HOPE.
I
need to talk to you about the subject matter you asked about the other night.”

Gavin paused, then grabbed the receiver. “Hello!”

Nothing. Gone.

He replayed the message, scribbled down the number on a Post-It pad, and pocketed it, wondering why the priest needed to talk
to him. If anything, he needed to talk to the priest.

Computer ready, Gavin typed in “
www.galapagos.com
,” not knowing where the screen would take him but hoping for a picture of a tortoise. A moment later he was listening to
jungle music at a travel site. There was a picture of a cruise ship, a bird, a seal, and yes… a tortoise. In fact, the tortoise
looked so much like Jeremy that Gavin stared at it longer than he’d planned. Perfect. He brought the cursor arrow to the tortoise,
right-clicked to zoom, and then clicked again on print. After retrieving the print, he cut out the tortoise, enlarged it on
the copy machine, and made six copies.

“This ought to do,” he said aloud, holding up a piece of his work.

“Do what?” came a voice from behind.

“Chris!”

“Oh, you remember me,” Chris said as he took a moment to examine the immediate area Gavin had littered with paper snippings
and a pair of scissors. He then picked up the other five copies of the tortoise picture. “You know, Gav, I normally wouldn’t
ask. You’ve always been a bit of a mystery and that’s fine. But when we have one maniac on the loose terrorizing the country
with tools he probably bought at garage sales and another who drove a truck through your house… and with your wife in the
hospital… I find
you
visiting a sick preacher upstate and then making copies of turtle pictures. I figure, being your partner and all, that it’s
time we had a talk.”

“Not now, Chris. I don’t have time,” Gavin said, plucking the pictures out of Chris’s hand and walking to his desk.

“Don’t have time? Why? Now where are you going?” Chris followed Gavin to his desk and then looked at the monitor screen. “The
Galapagos Islands?” He laughed. “Don’t tell me—your cruise ship leaves in fifteen minutes, but you’ll tell me all about it
when you get back.”

“I know this looks crazy, but I don’t have time now to explain.”

“No need to worry there, pal. I already think you’re nuts… or haven’t you been listening.”

“Believe me. You haven’t seen anything yet. Or rather, you’ve seen but don’t know what you’re seeing. Or something like that.
I don’t remember anymore.”

“You’re scaring me, Gav.”

“Forget it. Let’s just say I
am
crazy and leave it at that. Leave your basement door open. I’ll see you in the morning.” Gavin started quickly for the door.

“Whoa!” Chris said, keeping pace a step back. “I was serious when I said we had to talk. We’ve got some solid leads to go
over before the soldier moves on to his next project.”

Gavin hurried down the hall with Chris right behind him. A nightmare. “I can’t do this now, Chris. We’ll meet tonight when
I get back,” he said, flying down the wide marble stairs.

“Not good enough, Gav. I’m coming with you.”

Gavin allowed a mock laugh as he hit the outside air, shaking his head with determination. “No, you’re not!”

“I’m sorry, Gav, but I have to,” Chris insisted, a half step behind, the same way Superman would have said it to a twelve-year-old.
“There’s too much happening and you’re a part of it all.”

“Your older brothers must have tied you up a lot when they went to their friends, didn’t they? You can’t come!”

“I always got free. We’ll talk about it in the car.”

Gavin looked at Chris without saying another word. The Boy Scout, Saint Bernard, Canadian Mountie, and Nun-of-the-Month
qualities had dug in their heels. There was no way of getting rid of him when he got this way, and time was running out. “I
don’t have time to argue. Fine, we’ll talk about the case on the way, but you’re staying in the car when we get there.”

“Where?”

“Nassau Coliseum,” Gavin said, sliding into his seat. He turned the ignition key, hoping the car would start and rev before
Chris could respond. He pumped his foot and cranked and cranked and cranked. Why did this always happen when Chris was around?

“That WWX thing I told you about?”

“Yes.”

“You mean this is
my
fault?”

“Yes, it’s all your fault.” The car started.

“This can’t be happening now. I can’t be letting this happen now.”

“Try to stop me.”