The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons (29 page)

Tower and Kira raced stationary bicycles in his private gymnasium. Digital projectors threw video footage of Central Park onto two wall screens before them, and digitally recorded bicyclists soared past them, encouraging them to pedal faster. Vents blew silent wind resistance at them, and counters in the left-hand corner of each screen tracked their speed, energy output, and calorie burn. Tower wore an expensive designer sweat suit and Kira wore form-fitting bicycle pants and a muscle shirt. Safety helmets completed the illusion.

“What time is your meeting with Seguera’s people?” Tower said, feeling winded.

“Three o’clock.” Kira pedaled faster and the images on her screen sped up.

“I want that contract signed,” Tower said, trying to catch up to her.

“You’ll have it.”

“How does it feel to be this close to true power?”

She smiled, her legs pumping like pistons. “Stimulating.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead on the back of one hand. “We have enough souls. Terminate the Catcher before he gets us into trouble.”

“Done.”

“You did a good job with him.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, when I was your age—” Tower stopped pedaling, a confused expression on his face. Then he clutched his chest and moaned. Kira twisted around on her seat as he toppled over.

“Nicholas!” Leaping from her bike, she tore off her helmet and threw it aside as she ran over to him. Kneeling beside him on the exercise mat, she rolled him over so that he faced the ceiling.

He looked dead.

“No!” Pinching his nose with her fingers, she leaned over and administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She breathed into his mouth three times, then massaged his chest and repeated her actions.

After a minute of this, the old man coughed and looked at her with frightened eyes. He whispered something inaudible, and she flipped her hair back and pressed her right ear against his quivering lips.

“Soon …”

J
ake parked his rental car, a black Jetta, on West Seventy-sixth Street, near West End Avenue, opposite the address listed in the Soul Catcher’s file. Pulling on a knit ski cap and a pair of shades, he got out and plied the parking meter with quarters. He crossed the street, mounted the front steps of the granite building, and entered its vestibule. Scanning the apartment directory, he found what he wanted: Gorman, Marc, 609.

He studied the lobby: no doorman or security cameras, a welcome change. Returning to the Jetta, he checked out the other cars parked along the street. Sliding behind the wheel, he took out his cell phone and entered the number from Gorman’s file.

On the third ring, a man with a remote-sounding voice answered. “Hello?”

Jake felt a chill, then a rush of anger. He shut the cell phone off.

You motherfucker
.

He glanced at his watch: 11:20 a.m. Just over ten hours remained before his rendezvous with the Reaper. He studied the building, his eyes settling on the sixth floor. After six months, he knew the Cipher’s identity and location. He sat back in stakeout mode, popping a throat lozenge into his mouth and waiting.

The hydraulic lift lowered the platform into the life support unit. Standing on the platform, Kira clasped Tower’s hand as the old man lay on his king-sized bed, eyes closed. Beneath the oxygen mask attached to his face, his lips trembled.

A tall man with thinning hair and a pensive expression stood waiting below them. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a stethoscope around his neck. A uniformed nurse stood beside him.

“Hurry,” Kira said as the platform settled.

Dr. Kenneth Gavin stepped onto the platform. He examined Tower’s eyes and checked his pulse, then unzipped the old man’s sweat jacket and placed the stethoscope over his heart. While he listened to the heartbeat, the nurse wheeled medical equipment closer to the platform. Gavin’s expression turned grave, and he spread the flaps of the sweat jacket apart, exposing the Anting-Anting in a nest of white hair on Tower’s chest.

“Hook him up to the EKG,” he told the nurse as he reached for the amulet.

“Leave that alone,” Kira said.

Raising his eyebrows, Gavin left the amulet alone. The nurse affixed six sensors to Towers chest in a circular pattern. Gavin helped her attach plastic clips to the sensors. The wires at the ends of the clips ran to the EKG machine, and he studied Tower’s biorythms on a monitor.

“He needs to be airlifted to a hospital immediately,” Gavin said.

“There’s nothing in a hospital that Nicholas can’t get right here,” Kira said. “We’ve spent a fortune on your toys, Doctor. Now you can play with them.”

“Mr. Tower’s suffered a minor heart attack. That term is an oxymoron. He could recover completely or he could suffer another attack, which could cause even greater damage to his heart. We have the equipment here to monitor his condition, but we don’t have the personnel to give him the care that he needs.”

Kira stared at him. “Your colleagues will be here within the hour, and they’re each bringing a nurse.”

“This is insane.”

“Your objection’s been noted, but Nicholas is staying here. So are you.”

“I don’t want this man’s death on my conscience.”

Kira chuckled. “Nobility in the medical profession? I doubt it. You’re just worried that your meal ticket is about to expire.”

Ready to argue, Gavin bit his tongue.

“Don’t worry.” Kira smiled. “I’m sure he’ll outlive us all.”

A man in his midtwenties left the building and Jake tilted his head forward, peering over the top of his sunglasses. After sitting in the Jetta for two hours, his back felt stiff. The man wore glasses and a dark gray coat over khaki slacks, his short dark hair parted at the side. He had a slender build and a delicate face. Jake studied the copy of the police sketch and the photos from Gorman’s file, all of which he had taped to the dashboard, comparing them to the man heading up the block. Perp Fever spread through him, and he knew that he had found Sheryl’s killer.

As Gorman rounded the far corner, Jake called upstairs again. No one answered. He got out of the car and locked the doors with a remote control.

How much time did he have?

He had no idea. Gorman could have stepped out for a newspaper, or he might be gone for hours. Jake loaded more quarters into the parking meter and crossed the street. He did not want a parking ticket to put him at this location on this particular afternoon. The wind picked up and he shivered.

Stepping into the vestibule once more, he took a pair of latex gloves from one pocket and pulled them on. For a moment, he felt like a cop again. Then he removed the lock-picking kit that he had borrowed from the Control Room and unlocked the front door within seconds. Sliding the kit back into his pocket, he crossed the lobby’s checkered floor, his footsteps echoing. He boarded an old-fashioned elevator, which smelled like Chinese food, and pressed the sixth floor button. As the elevator rumbled upward, he took several deep breaths.

I might go to prison for this
, he thought.
But that doesn’t matter
.

He emerged into a long corridor lined with apartment doors, and stood still for a full minute, listening for sounds. Convinced that no tenants were about to exit their apartments, he crept toward the door marked 609. The sudden bark of a large-sounding dog on the other side of a door made him jump and reach for his Glock, but he relaxed as the unseen animal pawed at the metal separating them. Again he waited, and when no one shouted at the dog to be quiet, he proceeded.

Using a precision tool from the lock-picking kit, he undid both locks on Gorman’s door, a turnkey and a dead bolt, and entered the warm apartment. As he closed the door behind him, a keypad on the wall to his right emitted an electronic whine, a red light on its face flashing. Returning the kit to his pocket, he keyed in the code listed in Gorman’s file, disarming the device. If Gorman came home, he would know that someone had broken into the apartment, so Jake rearmed the alarm with the same code.

He unsnapped his coat, leaving the cap on his head to ensure that he left no stray hairs behind. At the far side of the deep living room, sunlight shone through tall windows with raised blinds. Jake crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, and entered a white kitchen. Bracing himself, he opened the refrigerator and gazed at its contents: skim milk, orange juice, vegetables. No decapitated heads or severed limbs. He tried the upper freezer and found nothing but low-fat frozen dinners. Gorman worried about his figure. Closing the door, Jake searched the rest of the apartment.

He switched on the overhead light in the bedroom, a white room with basic luxuries that lacked personality. A packet of photographic printing paper lay on a computer desk, next to a monitor. If Gorman was a photographer, he had not put any of his work on display. Jake went through the drawers and tossed the mattress without any results.

Then he opened the closet door, squinting at the coffin-like space. Two separate rods, one above the other, displayed clothes on hangers. Sliding the hangers across the rods, he inspected the garments: a business suit; a security guard uniform; a priest’s robes; surgical scrubs; a tuxedo; white kitchen garb; and a motorcycle outfit. On the floor of the closet, he spotted a black leather briefcase next to numerous shoes, sneakers, and boots. He picked up the briefcase and studied it. It looked identical to the one he had seen beneath the hatch in the Soul Chamber. Turning it over, he saw that no dust had accumulated on it. He shook the case and more than one object thudded inside it. The tabs had combination locks, but he lacked the patience to pick them.

Carrying the case into the living room, he set it down on the coffee table, then went into the kitchen and drew a long blade from a wooden butcher’s block on the counter. He returned with the knife and sat on the sofa. Puncturing the surface of the briefcase with the tip of the knife, he carved an
X
into its lid from corner to corner. He set the knife down and tore the case apart with his hands, shredding cardboard. Turning the case upside down and shaking it, he dumped its contents atop the table. He felt along the inside of the case, making sure he had emptied it, then tossed it aside.

He examined an open package of latex gloves. Gorman had also been careful not to leave evidence behind at crime scenes. A digital camera fit in the palm of his hand. Next he picked up a stack of digital photo prints attached to a metal ring, a collection of photographs. His hand shook as he flipped through the shots. He did not know the identities of the people in the first six photos, but he had seen them as Soul Searchers outside the Tower. Each victim stood alone in a dark setting and each wore a terrified expression. These were Gorman’s souvenirs, his keepsakes, the missing ingredients that he and Edgar had been unable to discover. The Cipher caught the souls of his victims for Old Nick, but he stole the images of their final moments for himself.

The remaining photographs showed people whose identities and apartments he knew: Abigail Williams, Luther Bass, Sung Yee, Miguel Jerez, Rachel Rosenthal, and Shannon Reynolds. The sense of dread he felt increased to an unbearable level as he reached the last image. But there was no photo of Sheryl.