Shatter Point Page 11

  “You’re being too hard on yourself! One of the dogs is still alive. You’ve collected valuable data from the tennis instructor. I have confidence that you’re just one more small breakthrough away from a viable drug.”

  Darian snorted and glanced away from Wickersham. What does it matter anyway? He was going to confess the truth to Jack later that afternoon, and there would be repercussions. “What do you want me to do?”

  Wickersham hesitated.

  Darian imagined a weasel running in a sphere deep within his brain.

  “Nothing, except clear your schedule for Saturday night. My assistant will be making a presentation for you. It’ll focus on the right things. The benefactor wants something quick and snazzy, not a bunch of jargon and technical stuff. I’ll take care of the whole thing.”

  Darian clenched his hands into tight fists. This is my project! Then he noticed the time on the wall. The computer simulation should be finished by now. He sighed. “Great. Anything else?”

  “Nothing else, but this meeting is of the utmost importance. It’s in your best interest to make a positive impression. I would hate for your funding to be pulled and your research stopped before you help the tennis player... or anyone else.”

  Darian detected the threat in Wickersham’s voice and knew it to be real. He could be pulled from the project. He wasn’t far removed from going back to the ghetto. Everything could be taken away from him, but right now, he didn’t care about any of that.

  He spun and left without saying another word, leaving the door open behind him. He hoped for a miracle and dreaded the truth.

  Without warning, Aunt Jackie swerved the Silver Bullet to the side of the road, jumped over the curb, and screeched to a stop.

  The car behind them veered into oncoming traffic, honking the horn as the driver skidded past them and missed the back bumper by inches.

  Aunt Jackie flipped him the bird.

  Tom began to see a pattern.

  They’d ridden from the apartment in silence. The Waylon Jennings songs had driven most of the thoughts from Tom’s mind, and the ones that lingered worried him too much to speak out loud.

  Aunt Jackie popped the trunk. “Okay, boys, this is the end of the road.” She swung out of the car with a slight groan, leaving the driver’s-side door open and the motor running.

  They were a hundred yards away from the main entrance to Kykuit, the state park that housed the old Rockefeller estate.

  The boys tentatively followed her. “Aren’t we going to go in?” asked Tom.

  She grabbed a blue vest from the trunk and slammed it shut. The badge clipped on the front read Tour Operator. “Only I can pass through the gates. You boys will have to go in through the side entrance.”

  Jack huffed. “Can’t you drop us off near the cemetery at least? We’re more than a mile away!”

  She smiled mischievously, turned, and jumped back into the car. Before they could react, she slammed the door shut and sped off, leaving the brothers behind with confused expressions on their faces.

  “She’s one weird bird,” Jack said. “Which way to the cemetery?”

  A secret tunnel in the cemetery led to the Fourteenth Colony’s covert headquarters in the state park.

  Tom pointed. “If we head east, we’ll run into it. Let’s get going.” He headed off at a slow jog. He wanted to sprint to the cemetery, but Jack couldn’t keep up. He had started teaching tennis at the Club on a part-time basis again, but he was still recovering.

  Jack jogged alongside his brother. “Why’d she drop us off so far from the cemetery?”

  “I don’t like it.” Tom frowned. “She wants to talk to Rachel first, without us there.”

  He increased his pace. His mind whirled as he tried to figure out what type of stew Aunt Jackie was cooking, certain he wasn’t going to like the taste.

  ***

  The brothers reached the aqueduct that ran along Sleepy Hollow Cemetery ten minutes later. They found the gap in the chain-link fence and scooted inside, then carefully made their way to the oldest part of the cemetery. The grounds were well cared for, trees healthy and pruned, and grass green and freshly mowed. Flowering plants splashed the landscape in abundant color.

  They followed an uneven gravel path into the oldest part of the cemetery, their feet crunching against small white pebbles. This area, though still well groomed, remained bare of color—no bouquets decorated these ancient gravestones. The neatly designed rows of the cemetery’s newer section contrasted with winding paths around ancient trees and even older rock formations in the older section.

  Jack hesitated as they neared a sharp turn, and grabbed Tom’s arm a second before a chipmunk bounded out of the nearby brush and skittered across the path.

  “That critter sure made a ton of noise for something so small.” Jack smiled. “I guess I’m jittery.”

  The brothers hurried along the path, took a sharp left around a wide oak tree, and continued as the path narrowed. They reached a small “T” and veered right off the main path.

  Tom led the way, and within seconds stood before the flat tombstone of Samson Burr, who died in 1845. Tucked behind a rock formation, the stone marker could only be seen by someone standing directly in front of it. Still, Tom glanced around to make sure they were alone as Jack leaned down and pressed the “o” in Samson.

  Nothing happened.

  “This is the correct tombstone, right? Shouldn’t it open to the tunnel?” Jack looked at Tom, mouth open. “What did Aunt Jackie do?”

  Tom leaned down and jabbed the “o.”

  Nothing happened.

  He balled his hands into fists. Pressing the “o” should have triggered a hydraulic hinge and revealed a hidden staircase into the tunnel that connected to the Fourteenth Colony’s headquarters. But with Aunt Jackie involved, none of the things that should have happened were happening.

  “Rachel has this place wired. She only admits those she wants,” Tom explained. “Maybe Aunt Jackie has pull with her, but why would she take us here and not let us in?” He scanned the nearby surroundings and spotted likely hiding spots for video cameras.

  “I’m going to kill that old bat,” Jack grumbled. “I can see my hands around her wrinkled throat. She’s old. It wouldn’t take much.”

  “We can’t force the stone up. We’ll need another way in.” Tom groaned. “Maybe we can sneak into Kykuit. We don’t have time for this!”

  His internal clock raced. They battled against time they didn’t have. It could take hours to sneak into Kykuit, even if they figured out how to do it.

  Jack silenced Tom with a look and a wave of his hand. “Someone’s coming, and he’s a lot bigger than a chipmunk.”

  Maggie opened her eyes. Something’s wrong.

  She managed to lie still and shut them tight, wading through a swirling, drug-induced fog. She counted to ten, the numbers fuzzy at first but gradually clearing.

  Her memory returned in flashes—the note, the crumpled drawing of Jack’s face, and....

  And Cooper.

  With a rush, everything else returned in stark detail and she gasped for air.

  Cooper brought me here. I’m under his control.

  Her mouth turned dry and a tremor shook her body. She cracked opened her eyelids just enough to catch a glimpse of her surroundings, a large bed surrounded by soft sheets. Soft, yellow light brightened the dark room.

  She shut her eyes again and listened, expecting to hear voices. She felt his eyes watching her, and a cold chill washed over her body. Frozen in terror, her breathing came in shallow, rapid gasps. The sound of her racing heart filled her head like water crashing over a waterfall, so loud she feared the noise would give her away.

  I am not a weak woman. That floated up to her consciousness from somewhere deep within, bobbing up and down on the current of her thoughts. She had no idea how long she’d laid unmoving, but her confidence slowly returned.

  Maggie opened her eyes and turned her head from side to side. She exp
ected to see Cooper staring down at her, but breathed deeper when she saw no one. The sting from the bruise on her cheek sharpened her thoughts.

  I am not a weak woman.

  She sat up. She was alone, breathing deeper still, until the waterfall receded. Her fingers lingered over her plush robe, sure it had cost more than she earned in a week. Everything in the room was soft and expensive—the bed large and the sheets made from high thread-count cotton. The furniture looked well made, and the room stretched farther than the entire length of her apartment.

  Bile rose in her throat as she resisted the urge to throw up. Something unhealthy about the richness of the room hit her hard. It felt unclean, though not in the literal meaning of the word. The place was spotless, but unclean in a spiritual sense. For the first time in her life, she believed Satan lived on Earth. Even worse, this was his room, and he’d be back for her soon.

  She shook her head and chased the idea—a bad thought, a defeatist thought—from her mind.

  I am not a weak woman.

  She scanned the room more carefully this time, noting no windows and two doors. I have to find a weapon. She swung her legs off the bed and wobbled a little as she stood. Her head swam in circles at first, but the dizziness passed and she straightened herself. The soft carpet fibers bristled against her toes.

  She bobbed her way to the bathroom door, still under the influence of the drugs Cooper had used to sedate her. She hesitated before opening it. Maybe he lurked behind that door, just waiting for her. Worse yet, maybe that door was a portal to hell.

  Another negative thought she banished from her mind.

  She steeled her nerves and touched the metal plate. The door slid sideways into a pocket in the wall and revealed nothing more extraordinary than a bathroom. Cooper didn’t lurk behind the door.

  I am not a weak woman.

  She gazed into the largest, most elaborate bathroom she’d ever seen, with a huge claw-foot, stand-alone marble tub, and a shower stall with ten stainless steel showerheads. Two large mirrors, two marble pedestal sinks, and a five-foot-tall cherry wood medicine cabinet stood on the left side of the room.

  She swayed toward the medicine cabinet and kicked a stainless steel stool that had three fluffy towels on top. There has to be something in here I can use as a weapon.

  As a methodical person, she attacked tasks in orderly ways. First, she opened all the drawers in the medicine cabinet and found a few toiletries, some lotions, and a few basic first-aid medical supplies. She inspected each bottle, hopeful to find something she could use, but found nothing. Her search became more frantic as she studied the shower and the toilet—still nothing.

  She leaned against one of the pedestal sinks and saw her image in the mirror. Her mental message changed. I am a strong woman. I will figure this out.

  She straightened her posture. What would happen if I killed myself? She wasn’t contemplating the afterlife, comfortable that her soul would live on when she stopped breathing, and would find her Paul again. No, her thoughts centered on Cooper and her boys.

  What would he do if I defied him and killed myself?

  He might move on, find a different woman, leave Tom and Jack alone.

  It was possible, but she knew better. He wouldn’t let her win. He would punish her boys. He would seek them out and, if he didn’t kill them immediately, find some other way to make their lives miserable.

  She couldn’t take that risk.

  I’m going to have to kill him before he kills me.

  Maggie lifted her eyes and barely recognized the stranger in the mirror. The bruise on her cheek flared red and angry, but the vacant look in her eyes troubled her more than her puffy skin. Bruises heal. She took a clean white towel and washed dried blood from her cheek. The white cotton turned red.

  I am a strong woman.

  She pounded the mirror with her right hand, and the thin plastic film bent against her fist. She glanced at the top of the mirror and noticed the tiny camera lens. It wasn’t a mirror at all, but a thin video screen. She pulled the robe tighter around her chest.

  She used to love small moments of privacy—in the bath on Sunday nights, drawing the Hudson River alone on the shore, in the back pew at church. She glanced at the camera and wondered if she would ever feel that again.

  A rattling sound of plates and glasses, rolled on a cart, broke the silence.

  An unfamiliar, cheerful male voice called out, “Brunch is ready!”

  She sighed, splashed water on her face, straightened her robe, and walked into the bedroom.

  A young, athletic looking man stood stiffly behind a pushcart of food with both of his arms clasped behind his back. Upon seeing her, he smiled, his teeth white and straight and his short blond hair neatly parted to the side. “My name is Terry. I’ve brought brunch for you. Where would you like me to set it up?”

  Maggie glanced around the large room. Her blank expression made it clear she had no preference.

  “How about if I set it up on this table?” Terry pointed to a nearby wooden table and nodded. Careful not to turn his back, the attendant set up plates of food on the table while keeping on eye on her. “We have French toast, Canadian bacon, strawberries, and orange juice. I hope you like it.” Steam spiraled up from the French toast.

  She sensed an opportunity and scooted toward the young man, stopping only a foot away from him. “You have to help me. I’m trapped,” she whispered.

  His eyes narrowed and turned to stone, but the fake smile never left his face. “I’m sure we will become close friends and you’ll be happy here. I’ll be back to take the tray later. The closet has a full wardrobe for you, with all the latest fashions.” He airily pointed to an open closet door.

  “I don’t want the latest fashions. Don’t you understand? I’m a prisoner here!”

  “We’ll talk later. You should wear something pretty. He’ll come to visit you later in the day.”

  Terry backed away from the table and toward the door, his hand resting on a thin black baton that hung from his belt. Without saying another word he placed his palm against a glass sensor by the door. It turned green, the door opened, and he left her alone.

  She looked down at the table, and all her favorite foods for brunch stared back at her. How could he have known that?

  She lifted the plastic knife and stabbed it against her palm. It bent too easily to work as a weapon.

  I am a strong woman, I am a strong woman, I am a strong woman....

  “Come on, Jack, they can’t find us here. We can’t compromise the tunnel.” Tom yanked his brother’s arm and they raced back to the main path, kicking up dirt in the process.

  When they cleared the “T,” they almost barreled into a hulking security guard who marched toward them. He swung a baton in a wide arc and swayed as he moved. A tad shorter than Tom, he had wide shoulders and massive arms that bulged against his black, short-sleeved shirt.

  His small black eyes narrowed, and his one bushy unibrow bunched together on his broad, square face. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Jack smiled. “We’re visiting our dead aunt.”

  The big man spat tobacco juice in a gross, brown flying missile that narrowly missed Jack’s sneakers. “Where’re your passes?”

  “Tobacco chew is bad for you. You might want to give it up,” Tom said, trying to sound as helpful as he could. “It’s loaded with toxins.”

  The guard’s pitted face turned into a sneer and his left eye twitched. “You’re a funny one.” He spit another glob of chew. This time, it splashed on Tom’s sneakers. “You’re not supposed to be here. Looks like it’s time for a beat down.” He smacked the baton into his hand.

  Tom never participated in jujitsu competitions. Since middle school, he had been in exactly six fights, five of them connected to Jack’s kidnapping. He’d won four of those and once, in seventh grade, an upperclassman made the mistake of picking on the skinny, brainy kid. Fighting was more about determination than bulky muscles, and he was plen
ty determined.

  Adrenaline raced through him as he studied the behemoth to determine the man’s weaknesses. He looks slow. All those bulky muscles probably make him awkward.

  Before he could make his move, Jack rushed past him and recklessly raced headlong toward the giant. Tom tried to grab him, but Jack darted forward before he could reach him. Tom knew the baton was electrified, and he was sure Jack didn’t.

  The colossal guard swung the stick and whacked Jack on the shoulder. Fifty thousand volts shot through him and his shoulder sizzled. He moaned and crumpled to the ground.

  The security guard smiled as he shot another gob of tobacco onto Jack’s shirt.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Tom growled.

  “I’m gonna do worse to you!” A vein pulsed on the pitted man’s forehead. His left eye twitched sporadically as if it were sending out Morse code.

  Tom cautiously circled the hulk, body tensed to spring.

  The guard lunged forward and swung the baton in a looping arc with his right hand.

  Tom caught his arm at the wrist and shoulder and brought it down hard on his left knee. The elbow dislocated.

  “Ahheee!” the guard screeched as he dropped the baton to the ground.

  Tom shot his right leg into the man’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him.

  The guard doubled over and gasped for air.

  Tom delivered a roundhouse kick flush to the side of his head—like hitting concrete.

  The big man spun to the ground. Struggling to his knees, he spit again, but this time, it wasn’t tobacco; the thick red goo was blood.

  Tom retrieved the baton. “I warned you.” He blasted the giant in his tree trunk-sized neck.

  The hulk went down in an unconscious lump. The scent of burned flesh filled the air.