F Paul Wilson - Secret History 03 Page 2

  He laughed. “No, I bring them for Kong.”

  “Kong?”

  “King Kong. That’s where he was killed.”

  Tom stared. “You were always a weird kid, Jack. Now you’re a weird adult.”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Still a kid.”

  But not acting like one now, Tom thought as he noticed the way Jack’s eyes darted back and forth, constantly on the move. Watching for what? Terrorists?

  No… his gaze seemed to linger more on the security personnel than on the Arabic-looking members of the crowd. Why? What about them concerned him?

  He realized Jack looked edgy. He suspected that whatever it was Jack did for a living, it probably wasn’t on the right side of the law. Tom hoped that was only a sometime thing.

  After what Tom had seen of Jack’s capabilities back in Florida, he’d make one formidable foe, no matter which side of the law he was on.

  But from what Tom had seen during Jack’s visit he knew that his son was involved in something else, something beyond legal systems. Perhaps even beyond normal reality.

  A girl who could control swamp creatures… a hole in the earth that went God knew where… a man who could walk on water, who Jack had called by name. They seemed to be enemies.

  And that was all Tom knew. He hadn’t been able to squeeze much explanation from Jack beyond cryptic statements about having had a “peek behind the curtain.”

  His stated purpose now was to spend the holidays with his sons and grandchildren, and that was true to an extent. But Tom was determined to use the time to learn more about the man his son had become. Which wouldn’t be easy. He knew Jack saw him as a bedrock traditionalist, and to some extent he was. He made no excuses about hewing to traditional values. He sensed Jack had no quarrel with those, but held to a looser, more flexible view as to how to uphold them.

  Still, no way to deny that Jack was on guard here. Not that he had to worry about the two blue-uniformed security people in sight—a skinny guy and a big-butted woman standing together near the exit. They seemed more interested in each other than in what was going on around them.

  Still, Tom looked for a way to ease Jack’s discomfort.

  “Where’s the car?”

  Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the big garage across the way.”

  “Much of a trip?”

  “Not bad. We go upstairs, take the skywalk across. That’ll put us on level four. I’m parked on level two, so we take an elevator down and go from there.”

  That seemed like too much time. If being here bothered Jack, this could be a way to get him out more quickly.

  “Why don’t you go get the car? By the time you come back, I’ll be waiting at the curb with my luggage.”

  “How many bags?”

  “One big one. And don’t give me that can-the-old-guy-handle-it? look. I handled it in Miami and I can handle it here. It’s got wheels.”

  Jack hesitated, then said, “Not a bad idea. The sooner we get on and off the BQE, the better. Rush hour starts early around here. Meet you outside.”

  His relief at getting out of the terminal was obvious.

  * * *

  3

  As Tom watched Jack thread the crowd toward the stairs, trailing his carry-on, someone opened an exit door. A gust of cold December air sneaked through and wrapped around him. He shivered. Now he knew why he’d moved to Florida.

  He returned his attention to the still and empty baggage carousel. A moment or two later a Klaxon sounded as an orange light began blinking; the carousel shuddered into motion.

  As luggage started to slide down a chute to the revolving surface Tom edged forward with everyone else, looking for his bag. It was black, like ninety percent of the rest, but he’d wrapped the handle in Day-Glo orange tape to make it easier to spot.

  One of the Hasidic women stood in front of him, carrying a one-year-old. A little girl, bundled head to toe against winter. Her large brown eyes fixed on Tom and he gave her a little wave. She smiled and covered her face. A shy one.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a door swing open on the far side of the carousel. Two figures emerged but he paid them no mind until he heard the unmistakable ratchet of a breech bolt. He froze, then spun toward the doorway in time to see two figures in gray coveralls, ski-masked under black-and-white kufiyas, raising assault pistols.

  Instinct and training took over as Tom dove for the floor, carrying the mother and her little girl with him. The woman cried out, and as the three of them fell, her fat, bearded husband in his long black coat and sealskin hat whirled toward them, his face a mask of shock and outrage.

  Then the shooting began and the man dove floorward along with everybody else.

  Tom heard shattering glass and a scream of pain behind him. He turned in time to see the two security guards go down, caught in a spray of bullets that shattered the glass doors behind them. The woman’s legs folded under her and she hit the floor not six feet from him. A pulsating crimson fountain arced from her throat. He saw more shock than pain in her eyes. She’d never had a chance to draw her pistol.

  The shooters seemed to have made a point of taking down the guards first. More would be coming, but for the moment the killers were unopposed. They mowed down anyone trying to run, and then began a systematic slaughter of the rest.

  Tom watched in horror as the two faceless gunmen split, each taking a side of the carousel, tearing up the helpless, cowering passengers with a succession of short bursts from their stubby, odd-looking assault pistols. They worked quickly and methodically, pausing only to change magazines or cut down those who tried to flee.

  Tom’s gut writhed and his bladder clenched with the realization that he was going to die here. He’d been shot in Korea, he’d survived the firefight of his life and Hurricane Elvis just a few months ago, only to be exterminated here like a roach trapped on the floor. If only he had a gun—even a .22 pistol—he could stop these arrogant murderous shits. They knew no one could fight back.

  Tom turned. The dead guard’s pistol beckoned to him from its holster.

  Just then a man leaped up and tried to dive into the baggage chute, but an extended burst cut him nearly in half, leaving his body wedged in the opening.

  That long burst emptied the killer’s magazine. As he switched to a fresh one, a brawny Hasid leaped to his feet and charged, roaring like the bear he resembled. The killer, caught off guard, backpedaled and slipped on the bloody floor. The Hasid was almost upon him when the other killer turned and ripped him up with a burst to the chest and abdomen that sent him spinning to the floor.

  Now! Tom thought, not giving himself time to think as he pushed himself up to a crouch and started a high-assed scramble. Now!

  He heard shooting behind him, saw pieces chip out of the floor as bullets hit it, felt something tear into his thigh. It knocked him flat, but pushed him forward as it did, putting the gun within reach. He heard the hollow clink! of an empty chamber and knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter’s magazine had run dry. Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he’d been hurt worse than this. All that mattered was the pistol. He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.

  His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake. Not just his hand and arms, his whole body. He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up. He couldn’t breathe. He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing.

  What was happening? He’d only been hit in the leg. Had he taken another slug somewhere else? What…?

  Tom’s light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

  * * *

  4

  Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport. La Guardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation. The dingy, Quonset hut-style hangars looked to be of 1930s vintage, while the green
-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design. The massive, six-story, bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday.

  As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running—not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them. Screaming people, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.

  Jack’s heart double-clutched. They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he’d left Dad.

  No… it can’t…

  He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman. He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes.

  Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!

  He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.

  Blood… blood everywhere… lakes of red on the floor… even the carousel was red… a man’s feet and legs hung out of the baggage chute… the bloody rag-doll body of a baby girl sprawled among the endlessly circling luggage.

  No other movement, no crying, no screams or wails of the wounded. Just silence. Not one of the victims so much as stirred.

  Jack stood frozen and stared, numb, paralyzed…

  Dad…?

  Where was his father? He’d left him standing right over there by the—

  There! Shit! A body, a gray-haired man in a green and white coat.

  No-no-no-no!

  As Jack forced himself forward a voice shouted from somewhere to his left.

  “Freeze!”

  Jack heard the word but it didn’t register. Stiff and slow, he kept moving, a living zombie.

  “Freeze, goddammit, or I’ll drop you where you stand!”

  Jack kept moving, forcing himself forward a few more steps until he reached the corpse. He dropped to his knees in a pool of still-warm blood, grabbed one of the shoulders, and rolled him over.

  The face—his lips were pulled back in a horrific, agonized grimace, but his glazed eyes left no doubt about it.

  Dad.

  Dead.

  Jack felt as if his chest might explode. He let out a sound that was equal parts moan and sob.

  He shook his father. It couldn’t be. They’d been talking just a few minutes ago. He couldn’t be dead!

  “Dad! Dad, it’s me, Jack! Can you hear me?”

  The voice said, “Are you fuckin’ deaf? I told you to freeze!”

  Jack looked up into the muzzle of a pistol held by a mustached security guard.

  “This… this is my father.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, I told you to—”

  “That will be enough!”

  An older man had come up behind the guard. He looked to be about fifty and wore a blue NYPD uniform with sergeant stripes. His nameplate read DRISCOLL.

  The guard backed off a step. “I found this guy wandering around. He could be—”

  Sergeant Driscoll’s voice dripped scorn. “He wasn’t wandering around. I saw him come in. He was looking for someone.” His eyes dropped to Jack’s father’s inert form. “And he found him.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” He shoved the guard away. “Get over by the door in case anyone else tries to wander in.”

  The guard moved off.

  Driscoll muttered, “Asshole,” then squatted beside Jack. “Look, I’m sorry about your dad, but you’ve got to go outside.”

  “What happened?” His own voice sounded far away. “I left him here just a few minutes ago… we were talking about going to the Empire State Build—”

  “I’m really sorry, but you’re going to have to wait outside. This whole area is a crime scene and you’re contaminating it, so you’ve got to leave.”

  “But—”

  He pointed to the floor beneath Jack. “Look at what you’re kneeling in. If we’re gonna catch these guys, we need every scrap of evidence we can get.” He slipped a hand into Jack’s armpit and lifted. “Come on. If you want to help us catch the fucks who did this to your dad, wait outside.”

  The cop’s touch lit a flicker of rage that flashed through the dead, dumb grayness that filled Jack, but he quickly doused it. Lashing out at this man who was trying to do the decent thing would solve nothing. He could walk away or be carried away; either way, he’d be leaving his dad behind. And if he was carried away, they’d find his ankle holster and the unregistered AMT .380 it held.

  So he let the cop help him to his feet and shuffled toward the shattered doorway where the security guard stood.

  He watched Jack’s approach.

  “Hey, sorry about back there. Case like this, you don’t know who’s friend or foe.”

  Jack nodded without making eye contact.

  Outside—chaos. EMS trucks screeching to a halt, shuttles trying to get out of the way, limos inching out from the curb, hundreds of people milling about, some weeping, some hysterical, some in slack-faced shock.

  He saw a harried-looking cop standing by the Vic, shouting, “One last time: Who owns this?”

  Jack hesitated, unsure of what he might be getting himself into, then decided that stepping forward would be less complicated, especially since his fingerprints were all over the car and it was registered in someone else’s name—someone unaware of that.

  Jack waved and hurried toward the cop. “Me! It’s mine!”

  “Then move it! You’re blocking the—hey, you hurt?”

  “What?”

  He pointed to Jack’s legs. “You’re bleeding.”

  Jack looked down and saw the wet red splotches on his knees. For a few seconds, he didn’t understand. Then—

  “No…” His voice caught. “No, that’s my father’s.”

  “Jesus. He all right?”

  Jack wanted to tell him what a stupid fucking question that was but bit it back. He simply shook his head.

  “Listen, I’m sorry.” The cop pointed to the Vic. “But ya still gotta move it. Just drive it into the garage. Then you can come back and wait with the rest.”

  “Wait for what?” Dad was dead.

  The cop shrugged. “I dunno. News about survivors, I guess. Not like you gotta choice. Airport’s locked down. Nobody out, nobody in.”

  Jack said nothing as he slipped behind the wheel and pulled away.

  * * *

  5

  Dad… gone…

  The words registered but his mind couldn’t get a grip on it, the… finality.

  He’d returned to the garage, found a spot on the perimeter of an upper level, and parked facing west. The falling December sun gleamed through the crystalline sky and stabbed his eyes. The sky had no right being so bright. It should be dark, with wind and hail and lightning.

  Numb, he lowered the visor and… just… sat.

  Gone… one minute alive and full of plans and enthusiasm, the next a cooling lump of meat in a pool of blood. Part of Jack insisted it was all a bad dream, but the rest of him knew he wouldn’t wake up from this.

  Knowing nothing made it worse. Who? Why? Some al-Qaeda strike? Or maybe al-Qaeda wannabes massacring a crowd of Orthodox Jews? Was that what this was all about? Made a sick sort of sense. But what made no sense was why, with all the flights from Miami to New York, his father had to wind up on that one.

  Jack had a blood-red urge to gun up and shoot down every Arab he could find. He knew that insanity would pass, but he reveled in the fantasy until it reminded him of the backup piece strapped to his ankle.

  He glanced around, saw no one about, so he reached down and pulled the little AMT .380 from its holster. When the FBI and CIA and NYPD and Homeland Security and whoever else would be involved began allowing people to leave the airport, he’d bet the ranch they’d be searching every person, every car. He wasn’t sure his tried-and-true John Tyleski ID would hold up—Ernie was painstakingly thorough when he created an identity, but no fake was perf
ect.

  And even if it did pass, he couldn’t risk carrying. Had to dump the pistol.

  He turned the little backup over in his hands. He’d bought it from Abe six months ago after his trusty old Semmerling had been connected to the subway massacre. Hadn’t had to pull it once since. Now he was going to have to toss it away unused.