Vigilante (11 page)

H
er chin held as high as she dared, Agnes entered Big Al’s Bar as casually as possible. The place was dark and her eyes didn’t adjust immediately. As was the custom in motorcyclist-favored bars, every patron looked up at the brightness pouring in through the front door as she walked inside.

Her greatest fear was that the people would start laughing the minute she walked in. She was hardly tiny or frail. At six foot three and broad-shouldered, she had played basketball and soccer in high school and later in college, and had even considered pursuing a career in sports back then. But she’d put that aside because another path called to her.

Having been the frequent practical-joke target of the popular kids in school because of her atypical size, Agnes had turned her attention to a profession that would allow her to speak her mind without fear: writing. Through the pen, she could be the one to paint a target on the backs of those who truly deserved it, and she relished any chance to show the public that nobody was perfect.

Instead of laughter, she drew a few raised eyebrows but otherwise blank expressions as she briskly marched up to the bartender in her pinstripe gray pantsuit. It was all an adventure to post about later online.

“What’ll you have?” asked the white-haired man behind the bar, who was missing several teeth but had replaced a few of them with gold.

“I’m looking for Tommy,” she said.

“Never heard of him,” replied the barkeep, though he kept his poker face trained on her.

Agnes frowned. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this—that this man Tommy might be more professional than this—but she supposed that anyone who ran a business out of a motorcycle bar was probably not one to welcome unwanted solicitors.

Reluctantly, she pulled a folded-up hundred dollar bill out of her pocket and passed it to the bartender, as discreetly as possible.

He unfolded it and examined it closely, even scanning it with a special light to prove it wasn’t a fake. When he was satisfied, he nodded toward a solid oak door at the very back of the bar. “Through there,” he said.

She didn’t bother to thank the old man; her money was all the gratitude she could afford to give. When she reached the heavy oak door, she knocked on it twice.

“Yeah?” called out a voice from inside.

“Tommy Serra? I’m in need of your services.”

The door cracked open two inches, but Agnes could see little more than darkness beyond it.

“You a cop?” asked Tommy from inside.

“Do I look like a cop?”

“You don’t look much like a biker,” Tommy replied.

“And you don’t look like you’ve seen anything outside this room since you were potty-trained,” she fired back, her blood pressure rising. “Relax, man-child. I can pay you well, and what I’m asking you to do isn’t even illegal.”

After a beat, the door was shut and latches and chains were undone from the inside. Finally the door opened and Tommy stood before her. He looked like he was barely out of his teens, clad in baggy clothes and sporting unkempt black hair, with dark circles under his beady eyes. He lived in a small space so dark it could only be described as a cave. She supposed it had been some kind of storage closet before he moved in. He nodded for her to enter, and then shut and locked the door behind her.

There were some offensive odors in this strange small room, not a single extra chair, and hardly enough room for her to stand. Tommy took his place at the large desk up against the right-side wall, and quickly looked back and forth between his three giant-screened computer monitors situated side-by-side.

Agnes wasn’t sure if she should wait for him to finish whatever he was doing or if he was merely waiting for her to tell him what she wanted. Either way, she was tiring of him already and decided to cut to the chase.

She pulled a legal-sized envelope out of her carryall and dropped it on Tommy’s desk. He swiveled to glance at it, and then he stopped his typing and opened it quickly, like a hungry animal smelling meat.

Several dozen photos slid out, and he shuffled through them quickly. “The Hand. Been watching this guy. Been to his website? He’s getting incredible traffic. I’m amazed it hasn’t crashed.”

“That’s virtually every photo that’s been taken of him,” Agnes explained.

Tommy kept shuffling. “He’s pretty camera shy. Not a single shot of his face.”

She nodded. “Exactly. But if you look closely, you can see little bits here and there. Tiny parts of his face that peek through from under that hood—mostly his chin and jowls. No one’s gotten a real clear look at him, several of these shots are blurry. But I hear you’re good at 3-D rendering, among your other—”

“You want me to map each of these bits of his face onto a 3-D model, and see how much of the puzzle can be pieced together,” Tommy assessed.

“How long will it take?”

“Three days, maybe four.”

She handed him a business card and ten one-hundred dollar bills. “Make it two. And call me the minute it’s done.”

Without stopping to find out if this price was agreeable to him, or to see if he wanted to negotiate a particular rate, she closed her bag, turned on one heel, unlocked his heavy oak door, and marched out.

I
t was after eight o’clock in the evening when Nolan wearily returned to his underground home after a very long day. There had been four crimes in progress to attend to, in between which he’d turned his focus to his ongoing efforts to uncover deeper, systemic examples of crime.

With Branford’s help, he’d managed to turn up evidence of corruption in the mayor’s administration and had snuck into the man’s office to leave behind a digital disk drive containing all of the incriminating information he had amassed.

That was just his morning. His afternoon had consisted of rounding up a number of pimps in Hell’s Kitchen and seeing to it that they were put out of business for good, and the prostitutes in their employ given second chances at a better life. These kinds of missions required more finesse and planning on his part; since he could never use his voice, he had to work closely with Branford to place the dominos
just so
, so that elements fell perfectly into place. Such as luring the police to local “establishments” under the pretense of trying to catch Nolan himself, or arranging for representatives from charity organizations and churches to appear on the scene just as the prostitutes found themselves without employment and in need of guidance. Only a few of them would choose to take this opportunity to change their ways, of course, but every single one Nolan counted as a victory.

With a soreness that ached through muscle, ligament, and bone, he removed his flak jacket and hung it on the stone wall on a hook that had been placed beside the main entrance. On the other side of the entrance was a whiteboard that he’d hung himself, and he grabbed the black marker hanging underneath and added another line to the ongoing tally. The board told him that this had been day forty-eight. Almost seven weeks since Times Square.

So tired he just wanted some quiet time to himself, he slipped away to his bunk where he could address today’s cuts and scrapes, alone. No need to bother Alice.

Five minutes later, he realized he should’ve known better, when Alice appeared with a smile and wordlessly handed him a tray filled with home cooking. Nolan accepted the food gratefully and said a soft “Thank you, ma’am” as she nodded and left him in peace. He grabbed a TV remote and flipped on the small box he’d installed near his bed, while he ate.

As he chewed a bite and stretched his sore shoulder, the TV came on, landing on a cable news network where a roundtable discussion filled the screen. According to the graphics, today’s guests were a theological scholar and a well-known pastor. Their topic was The Hand. Which wasn’t surprising—The Hand had been the media’s favorite topic for weeks. The debate was already in progress, but Nolan paused his eating for a moment to listen.

The scholar carefully adjusted his glasses. “This mystery man’s intentions seem noble enough, certainly, and I applaud them, but human beings are inherently incapable of being good on our own. This is the very reason that the Son of God was sent to redeem the world. Any attempts to ‘be good’ or ‘do good’ on this man’s own—and even inspire others to do the same—are futile.”

The moderator opened his mouth and turned to the pastor, but didn’t get the chance to speak. The pastor jumped in immediately. “So are you saying we shouldn’t bother helping our neighbor, lifting up the downtrodden, defending the weak, or being kind to one another? When was it that those things—the very types of things that Jesus himself ‘led by example’ by doing—became futile?”

The scholar rebutted immediately. “Acts of kindness are always good, and are to be encouraged. And if that were all that this ‘Hand’ fellow was interested in doing—showing people how to treat one another—then that would be perfectly fine. But he’s making such a grand show of his efforts that I get the sense his endgame is something much bigger than he’s let on, and I think you would agree. He wants to change New York City—it says so on his website—but that’s a change that takes place in the heart.”

“Again,” replied the pastor, “I have to wonder, what’s so wrong with wanting to make a better place for people to live? Even if his influence never spreads beyond a few, if he keeps one hurting girl from becoming a prostitute, or one kid from throwing his life away by taking part in a robbery, then I say more power to him. Change starts from within, absolutely, but it spreads to our actions, and the more of these kinds of charitable life-saving actions the world sees with its own eyes, the more they will
see
the gospel message itself—and not just hear it or read about it. For that reason alone, The Hand gets my full support and a standing ovation.”

To demonstrate his sincerity, the pastor leapt to his feet and began to clap. Others in the studio audience quickly joined in, and as the camera panned around, Nolan could see that everyone in the entire room was on his feet, applauding.

The moderator quickly regained control of the broadcast by latching onto the pastor’s last words. “Clearly The Hand has support from people of all backgrounds and belief systems. I’ve noticed a number of religious news agencies with headlines that label him ‘The Hand of God,’ suggesting that he’s doing the very work of God himself. Here’s a question for our guests. In The Hand’s case, does might make right?”

His thoughts consumed with these words and opinions, Nolan turned off the television and forgot about his food.

I
’m not trying to be the second coming, people!
Nolan thought.
There’s only one Jesus, and he did what no human ever can. I’m just trying to instigate some social change, remind people of the Golden Rule. Sure, I’m doing it on a big stage, but—

He blinked. Alice was standing behind the television, watching him.

“Food’s getting cold,” she said softly.

He looked down at his plate and saw that it was no longer steaming. “Sorry,” he said.

“Saw you favoring that shoulder,” she said. “Let me take a look.”

Nolan hesitated. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine, really.”

“Let me check to be sure,” Alice replied, averting her eyes. “I need to feel useful.”

Still Nolan paused. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to be his nurse. She’d already proven herself qualified. He just wasn’t used to letting anyone see what was under his clothes.

Mostly to avoid hurting her feelings, he finally conceded. Without a word, he turned his back to her and pulled his shirt off over his head. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Sweet Moses . . .” Alice whispered, sounding as if something had knocked the wind out of her. “I’m so sorry,” she backpedaled. “I just . . . I didn’t think.”

“You didn’t know,” Nolan reminded her. “No one does.”

His upper body showcased his strapping, chiseled musculature. But it was also covered in countless scars bearing witness to the terrible things he’d suffered during the war. There were narrow streaks of dark pink skin all over, evidence of whippings and cuts. Huge raised areas on his back and shoulders where the skin had grown back after being violently ripped off. Countless tiny spots in his forearms where he’d been stuck with needles. Perfectly straight incisions in his abdomen with stitching holes on either side, where he’d been surgically mutilated, without the mercies of anesthesia. There were bullet wounds, melted skin where he’d been burned, and even a few skin grafts.

After she’d had a minute to gather herself, Alice grasped his arm and examined it as he rotated it as far as he could. She said nothing, focusing on the workings of his shoulder by turning it this way and that. But every few seconds, she sniffled. At one point, she let go of him, and Nolan was sure she was wiping her eyes.

“You were right,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “You’ll be fine.”

With that, she turned to go, walking away in stunned silence.

Nolan quickly pulled his shirt back on. There was never a good time for what he needed to tell her, so he said, “Oh, before I forget . . .” as casually as he could muster. “I believe your husband
is
still looking for you. I’d hoped that if you laid low for a while, the police would get preoccupied with me and some of the heat you were feeling would die down. But it hasn’t. I’m sorry. It looks like you’re stuck here for the duration.”

Alice turned and offered a tight almost-smile. “It’s not so bad here. I’m safe. I’m alive. And I get to see you do the things you do, firsthand. Now, why don’t you tell me why you were so far away a while ago, before I walked over. What’s on your mind? I’m a great listener—I can listen with the best of them.”

Nolan tried to offer his own smile in return, but his face wouldn’t move, and besides, it wouldn’t have been sincere. “I was just . . . Do people really think that stuff about me? That I’m trying to be the new Jesus or something?”

She shrugged and sat down at the foot of the bed. “At my church, we’re taught to ‘be Jesus to the world.’ Seems to me that’s exactly what you’ve been doing. Though I don’t recall Jesus using a big metal stick.”

Nolan gave a halfhearted smile. “Am I crazy for thinking I can actually change the entire city—and maybe even beyond?”

Alice considered this. “I’ve always found that if a man wants something bad enough, he’ll find a way to get it. And I think you’re the most determined man I’ve ever met.”

“You think I’m a fool,” Nolan said quietly.

She frowned. “You’re only a fool for thinking that. You saved my life, and you’ve saved hundreds of others too. There’s nothing foolish about that.”

“But . . . ?”

“I worry for you. I can’t help it. You’re out there every day, and I’m afraid that one of these times you won’t come back. You face down the entire city, telling people they need to change and here’s how to do it. The city might not be interested. You’ve thrown yourself into the spotlight, and people are fickle. Today they love you. Tomorrow they may call for your execution.”

Nolan grimaced. But he couldn’t lie to her.

“You think I’m not afraid?” he said in a small voice. “I’m scared to death.”

“Then tell me
why
,” she said slowly, emphatically, appealing to him with the fundamental question he knew she’d been wondering since they first met.

Nolan turned inward, searching for some way to explain, and let out a long breath. He started to speak twice but stopped both times before finally finding a place to begin.

“Words are hard for me sometimes,” he apologized. “During the war, we had a guy in our unit named Darren. Good guy, loved his wife, and had three kids between six and twelve years old. Showed me photos of his kids once, and he was right there in every picture with them, grinning ear to ear. Just crazy over them. He was in the reserves and called to active duty. Good soldier, dependable, honorable. I was leading a small group of men on a transfer assignment, delivering a handful of prisoners to HQ for questioning.

“We were ambushed by two dozen tangos. They got shots off before we had time to react, and Darren took one to the neck. We were pinned down for twelve minutes before we finally took them out. By the time it was over, Darren had bled out. Dead before we could get him to a medic. All I could think of for weeks was how that night, somebody somewhere had to tell Darren’s six-year-old daughter that she would never see her daddy again. That’s hard enough for an adult to deal with, but a child, who doesn’t understand things? I heard a few years ago that little girl has been to see lots of psychologists because she never feels safe.”

Nolan watched as Alice studied him. She’d never seen him talk this much before, and she was fully engrossed in his words.

“Got a friend from high school, Samantha. Ran into her a couple years back over lunch. She looked nothing like I remembered. Sam told me how she’d married the man of her dreams after school, and they’d spent a few happy years together. But then finances got tight and he started to change. Everything became her fault. He threatened to kill her, he punched her and roughed her up.

“One day when he wasn’t home, Sam found a shoebox that had a loaded gun inside, along with wire, a hammer, and some matches. She freaked out but couldn’t let on that she knew. They stopped sleeping in the same bed together, and she would lock her bedroom door at night, but she woke up one time in the middle of the night to see him standing over her bed, watching her sleep with a crazed look in his eyes. The next day he punched her in the head so hard that even now she still struggles with severe migraines.

“She finally found her courage and called the police. She got a restraining order against him and they divorced, but for years, he terrorized her. He would ride past her home when she was outside and stare at her with that same look in his eyes. He’s tried to break in to the house a few times, he’s followed her family around and threatened them. And when Sam tried to prosecute him for violating the restraining order—wouldn’t you know it? His little brother was a hotshot lawyer whom he’d helped put through law school, so that debt was repaid by bringing this powerful law firm down on her. They postponed court dates time after time, and used every dirty tactic in the book to discredit her and ensure that her husband got everything, without having to pay her a dime out of all the money he’d hid from her. It was years before she was able to pick up the pieces of her life, but she’s skinny and frail now, and she’s still afraid to leave the house.”

Nolan looked down, weariness and sadness creeping across his features. “These stories aren’t the exception. They’re the norm. Violence is everywhere.” Nolan’s temper grew in intensity, frustration. “It’s not right. This ain’t how the world should be. It’s an evil place, and it’s mired in sin and pain and destruction. And it
shouldn’t be
. The world is broken, and maybe I
am
crazy, but I’m going out there every day, charging into the fires of hell, because I have to
do something
.”

Alice was silent, and he found her gaze uncomfortable. He looked away. “You still think I’m crazy.”

Alice looked at him, those wise eyes of hers not blinking. “I was thinking you’re a lot better with words than you think you are. And I was thinking that anybody else would have quit long before now. You are exactly the right person in the right place at the right time. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different.”