Carbines and Capacitors 10/14
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A/N: I’m doing an “it’s AU anyway” handwave in this chapter and the next because while the direct rail line from Long Island City to Jamaica Station that goes through Forest Park was apparently open in November 2013, the Wayback Machine didn’t capture a schedule for that line, which suggests it was for freight only. I therefore ask any New Yorkers who know differently to kindly cut me a break.
Chapter 10
The Calm Before
“Hey, kid,” Simmons’ voice called as Mike Laskey limped past an alley on his way to the coffee cart the next morning. “C’mere.”
Here we go, Mike thought and steeled himself as he turned aside and limped over to where Simmons was waiting for him.
Simmons frowned, noticing the way Mike was walking. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, I fell last night, cut my leg,” Mike lied. “I had a friend stitch it up for me. She says I’ll be fine on patrol-y’know, as long as nothing crazy happens.”
Simmons chuckled. “Kid, you don’t know from crazy.”
Mike was pretty sure the last seventy-two hours qualified: being ordered to kill a man, having his partner fake the murder for him, being ordered to kill a girl, having his partner knock him out with one punch to make it look good, having some chick he’d never seen before field-strip his weapon like it was nothing, having that same chick turn up at thirty minutes to midnight to stitch up a gunshot graze in his leg like it was nothing. But craziest of all had been Merritt-“dear boy, I’m a method actor,” fluent-in-five-Native-languages, lost-his-wallet-in-a-poker-game, definitely-not-the-Suit James Thornton Merritt-stepping out of the shadows with a Desert Eagle to save Mike’s life. Mike didn’t know if Carter could have made that shot; he wasn’t that good or fast himself. He’d have thought the whole thing was a dream if he hadn’t woken up with five stitches in his leg. He couldn’t say any of that to Simmons, though, so he only smiled.
“Have you seen Terney?” Simmons asked.
Mike shrugged and shook his head. “No, sir, not since we left the auction house yesterday.”
“He didn’t come by your place last night?”
“No, sir.”
Simmons swore. “I told him I wanted the two of you to find that baseball.”
“He never arrived.”
Simmons swore again.
Hesitantly, mostly because he hadn’t discussed this idea with Carter, Mike suggested, “Maybe he found the real ball and decided to keep it for himself.”
Simmons stared at him like he’d just grown a third head. “Terney?! I’ve known him since we went through the Academy!”
“That much money could be a temptation to anyone. And you’re the one who taught me the difference between knowing someone and trusting them.”
Simmons was still staring at Mike when his phone rang. He answered, listened a moment, and said, “You’re kidding. When?” He listened some more, with the occasional “Uh-huh” to show he was still there, and finally swore bitterly. “Find him,” he ordered, hung up, and looked at Mike again. “Looks like you could be right, Laskey. Terney showed up at Bellevue last night with a .50-caliber hole in his wrist, but he didn’t call any of us. He called Peter Yogorov-and told him I shot him.”
Mike shook his head. “That’s crazy, boss.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” Simmons shook his head in turn. “All right, get lost. And take care of that leg, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mike and went on his way. Fortunately, the line at the coffee cart was short, and Carter was waiting just around the corner, so it wasn’t long until Mike was sinking into his seat in the patrol car with a groan and handing Carter her coffee.
“Heard what you said to Simmons,” she said as he shut his door.
He looked at her. “Yeah? How’d I do?”
She smiled. “Perfect.”
He smiled back and relaxed.
“And look what I found taped to my door this morning.” She handed him a jewel case with a CD in it labeled FOR CARTER in large block letters.
He frowned. “Is that Det. Terney’s handwriting?”
“Yep. It’s a full videotaped confession. I don’t know what kind of a deal he made with Yogorov last night, but it looks like after he left the hospital, he took a laptop into the conference room at the Eighth and recorded it there.” She took the CD back and hid it in the glovebox. “The most important thing is, he names the head of HR, so that gives me enough to bring the whole rotten bunch down.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So what happens now?”
“Now we have our coffee and get on with our shift. And tonight?” She put the car in gear. “We have a council of war.”
Cheyenne had Reese pick him up at eight that evening for the strategy meeting, which took place at the second safe house. Mr. Finch didn’t want Collier to overhear anything he shouldn’t, and Reese and Cheyenne had agreed. Laskey seemed to be surprised by just how many friends Miss Carter had-the team numbered seven in all, counting Miss Carter but not counting Miss Morgan, Root, or Elias, none of whom were there-but while that was better than her taking on all of HR and the Bratva alone, Cheyenne would still have felt more at ease with larger numbers on their side. Still, as Reese pointed out, overwhelming numbers didn’t always carry the day, and Miss Carter planned to have the FBI round up the rank-and-file members of each organization. Quinn was the one man she wanted to arrest personally; if they could get Simmons at the same time, so much the better.
The idea was to set a trap-or rather, a counter-trap-for Quinn by luring him out when Miss Carter went to a judge after hours to get a warrant for his arrest. Laskey, by unanimous agreement, was assigned to guard Collier at the safe house. Mr. Finch and Bear would naturally be at the library, recording any last incriminating evidence and overseeing the operation. The main assault would come from Miss Carter, Reese, and Cheyenne; Fusco and Shaw were to provide backup once the team started escorting Quinn to the federal building downtown to place him in FBI custody. Miss Morgan had already provided Miss Carter with a list of judges suspected to be on HR’s payroll, and Miss Carter had selected one, named Andrew Monahan, who was most likely to alert Quinn when she called and to allow HR to set a trap for her. The main problem was that Monahan lived in Queens. While the distance to Manhattan wasn’t insurmountable, the area was too built up for a quick getaway, and then there was the problem of crossing the Hudson River to Manhattan Island.
“There’s really only two options to get across here,” Fusco pointed out, “take a train or cross a bridge. The minute word gets out that you guys’ve got Quinn, HR’s gonna throw up checkpoints on every bridge and have men checkin’ every train station between Monahan’s house and Manhattan.”
Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. “Only two options?”
“We can’t fly in,” said Reese. “It’s illegal to land a helicopter in Manhattan, and even if we tried an ultralight, they’d have someone watching every dirt strip where we could possibly land.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ of flyin’.” In fact, Cheyenne usually forgot that was possible these days; helicopters still took him by surprise.
“What’s left?”
Cheyenne put his finger on the map squarely in the middle of Jamaica Bay. “A boat.”
Fusco chuckled. “That’s a lotta open ground to cover there, Cowboy.”
“Not as much as you’d think.” Cheyenne backed up to the judge’s house. “For one thing, they’ll be expectin’ us to go straight toward Manhattan, not away from it. So the first step is gettin’ a few streets away an’ then headin’ down here to Forest Park.”
Sobering, Fusco hummed thoughtfully. “Hafta find a way across Jackie Robinson Parkway, but once you do, that tree cover’s pretty solid.”
“Could we get horses through there?”
“Yeah, probably, if you really want to. There’s walkin’ trails. But it’s no good tryin’ to get outta the park on horseback.”
“I wasn’t figurin’ on it.” Cheyenne pointed next to a rail line that crossed the park. “If we time it right, we should be able to hop a train here that’ll take us toward Jamaica Station.”
“Toward, not to?” Miss Carter asked.
“That’s right.” Cheyenne followed the line in that direction with his finger but stopped where it crossed Jamaica Avenue. “The train should start slowin’ down about here, give us a chance to jump off.”
“Hey, I know that corner,” Laskey chimed in. “There’s a used car lot just down the embankment from the tracks.”
Sam brightened. “So if we stash a car there earlier in the day….”
Reese put his finger down next to Cheyenne’s and traced the next leg. “Lefferts to Conduit to Cohancy to 157th is our fastest route to a marina.”
Cheyenne picked up from Howard Beach. “We sail around thisaway and up to the far side o’ Battery Park-say, the North Cove Marina. We can walk the rest in a quarter of an hour.”
“It sounds good in principle,” said Miss Carter. “But you’re assuming they’ll all be staked out in the train stations and subway stations and along the bridges even when we don’t show up after a couple of hours. That may not work if they find my car in the park or get extra manpower on the streets.”
Reese sighed. “Or if they send helicopters while we’re still in open water. We’ll need some way to jam all their communications.”
“That won’t be so easy,” said Fusco. “After the last two times you guys pulled that trick, the department’s been takin’ steps to harden its communications platforms to stop you from doin’ it again.”
“And I can’t justify taking all emergency bands down for as long as it might take to get Quinn to the federal building,” Mr. Finch added. “Too many innocent lives could be lost.”
“So you need someone who can selectively block HR,” Sam stated.
The room fell silent. Everyone but Laskey knew she meant Root, although of course neither Miss Carter nor Fusco knew why Sam would think Root could do such a thing-and Cheyenne wished he didn’t know.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Mr. Finch.
“I don’t trust her either,” Sam insisted, “but she may be our only option.”
“We are talkin’ about the crazy chick who kidnapped Glasses, right?” Fusco asked. “Didn’t she just kidnap you, too?”
Sam rolled her eyes. “You think I’ve forgotten that?!”
Mr. Finch shook his head. “Root is far too dangerous for me to even consider letting her help us.”
“I don’t trust her, either, sir,” said Cheyenne, deeply uneasy but still seeing Sam’s point. “But she may be the best bet we have of gettin’ things done the rest of us can’t handle.”
“Mr. Merritt-”
“You heard what she said the other night.”
Mr. Finch hesitated a moment before responding, “The analog interface is offline for maintenance.”
“There is only so much I can do in this situation. I’m a fast gun and a good scout, but I can’t jam radios.”
“Who else would we ask?” Reese wondered quietly. “Collier’s not a hacker. Neither is Elias. Greenfield’s in the wind. We can’t trust Leon Tao, and he’s only useful with financial stuff anyway. So who’s left?”
“You wouldn’t have to let her go,” Sam pressed before Mr. Finch could come up with an answer. “Just lengthen her leash, like, a foot.”
Mr. Finch shook his head again. “I’m sorry. There has to be another way.”
“Finch, we’re on the razor’s edge with this one,” said Reese. “One slip, and we could all get killed. Every other option is worse-we’ve just gone over all of them. You know what I think of Root after what she did to you, but if she can give us that lifeline, just this once… we’ve worked with Elias with less cause.”
“That hasn’t always gone well for us, Mr. Reese.”
“He saved my life in Rikers.”
Cheyenne stole a glance at Laskey, who was sitting next to him. The poor kid looked about like Cheyenne had felt the night the team had met with Miss Morgan: somewhere between bewildered and spooked. It was a good thing Laskey didn’t know about the Machine, or Collier might recruit him into Vigilance without even trying.
“She’s still a fruitcake,” Fusco grumbled.
“No one’s disputin’ that,” said Cheyenne.
“No,” Miss Carter agreed thoughtfully. “But sometimes when you need all hands on deck… it means you have to let some guys out of the brig until the storm’s over.”
Mr. Finch looked over the map again and studied the pictures of the house and its surroundings. Then he sighed heavily. “I will… consider what terms to present to her tomorrow.”
The other long-term members of the team looked at each other in mingled relief, annoyance, and grim determination. It felt an awful lot like the times Cheyenne had had no choice but to trust an outlaw with his life. At least this time, he wasn’t in the bind alone-and neither was Miss Carter.
Laskey leaned toward Cheyenne and murmured, “I don’t understand what just happened.”
“I hope you never do,” Cheyenne murmured back.
The next morning, Cheyenne was startled to be woken before dawn by a call from Reese. “Finch wants us at the library at 9,” Reese stated. “I’ll pick you up at 7:30.”
Cheyenne frowned at his alarm clock, which stubbornly insisted that it was a quarter to 7. It shouldn’t take an hour and a half to get from his apartment to the library, even with traffic. “Why so early?”
“Need to make a couple stops on our way.”
Cheyenne sighed. “Is it a case? I was plannin’ to do my washin’ today.” He should have done it that Monday, of course, but the Price case had put paid to that plan-he couldn’t very well have taken his wash to the safe house, after all-and now he was out of white shirts and clean handkerchiefs, although he still had bandanas.
“No, casual’s fine,” Reese replied, understanding the real question. “I think he wants to go over the plan again before he talks to Root.”
And that probably meant Mr. Finch wanted not only to be sure Root was their only option but also to have Cheyenne and Reese for backup as well as moral support. Cheyenne would need his guns, then, despite not wearing the suit. His new buckskin jacket should hide the shoulder holster well enough.
He sighed and got up. “All right. See you then.”
Breakfast and a shower got Cheyenne awake enough to hit the trail, although he was definitely going to need more coffee before facing Root. He dressed and threw on his boot holster, shoulder holster, and belt with knife sheath; then he reached for his gun belt-and stopped himself with a heavy sigh. For all the ways he’d gotten used to this year, the habits of his entire adult life died hard, and he missed his old life, his old friends, his horse.
He wanted to go home.
It must have still been showing when Reese met him at the curb, precisely on time, because no sooner had Cheyenne gotten in the car than Reese asked, “Problems?”
“Homesick,” Cheyenne admitted. “Ironic for someone who ain’t lived in one place for this long but once or twice in all his life, but still.”
Reese nodded. “Given any thought to what sort of party favors you want to bring to this shivaree we’re planning?”
Cheyenne shook his head. “Not yet.”
“No reason you can’t take a Winchester and your revolver.”
Cheyenne blinked. “Really?”
Reese shrugged. “We’re going in together. No reason to keep up the pretense.”
“Well, a Winchester might be overkill inside a house. Might be harder to handle gettin’ on an’ off the train, too. But I might just wear my revolver, thanks.”
“About the train: I don’t think horses would gain us any speed in getting to the tracks. I looked at aerial photos last night, and Fusco’s right-about the only way through the trees other than on foot is on the walking trails, which a cop trained in helicopter search would be able to follow pretty easily. Our best bet’s sticking to the points where the trees are thickest, which is just where a horse can’t go. And there’s the problem of what we’d do with the horses once we reached the track.”
“That’s a good point.” Cheyenne rubbed wearily at his forehead, unsure whether he really had a headache coming on or if it was just lack of coffee. He’d had one cup with breakfast, but that clearly hadn’t been enough.
“The other problem is convincing Quinn to make the jumps. Getting off, we can just push him, but getting on while it’s at speed….”
“Are there any bridges we could jump from?”
“Ooh. Maybe. I’ll look. Of course, odds are that they’re clear at the other end of the park.”
“If I remember the scale right, though, it’s no more’n a mile from Monahan’s house. We should be able to manage that.”
“The snag with jumping down onto the train is….”
“Getting inside,” they chorused.
“Or at least gettin’ down between cars,” Cheyenne qualified.
Reese nodded. “We’ll have to check schedules, find out when a train bound for Jamaica Station comes through there and whether it’s likely to be passenger or freight.”
“Freight might be safer.”
“They may not be old-fashioned boxcars, though. Even modern boxcars don’t have platforms at the ends, and a tanker or flatcar could be tricky to hold onto, even for a short stretch.”
Cheyenne grimaced. “I don’t suppose Mr. Finch would spring for a private train.”
Reese laughed. “Wouldn’t hurt to ask! I think he’s already working on sourcing a car to sell to the used car lot-old enough that it won’t look suspicious and won’t have GPS but nice enough that it won’t be a surprise when we ‘steal’ it. ’Course, I don’t mind just hotwiring one of the cars already on the lot, but this way we’ll know what antitheft devices the car has and won’t have to waste time with the hotwiring.”
Cheyenne still wasn’t comfortable with that kind of casual theft, even for a short drive, so he said nothing.
“So,” Reese continued after a pause. “What did Root have to say the other night?”
Cheyenne frowned at the change of subject. “Sorry?”
“You said something to Finch last night about his having heard what Root said. But she didn’t say anything about this mission that Shaw and I heard.”
“Oh.” Cheyenne sighed. “The Machine asked me to save Miss Carter ’cause the ‘other available assets’ won’t be enough, an’ it said… if she dies, Samaritan will rise.”
Reese swore quietly.
“Dunno how it reckons that or why it thinks my gun can make that much of a difference, but that’s what Root said it was tellin’ her.”
“And it’s never wrong. What’d you say?”
“That I’d do it because she’s my friend, not because it asked me to.”
Reese looked a little relieved at that answer, but he only nodded slowly and found a place to park. “Our first stop’s over there,” he stated, nodding toward a line of trees a block or two away. “There’s a coffee cart in the park-and something I need to show you.”
Somewhat surprised, Cheyenne got out at the same time Reese did and held his jacket close against the early morning sea breeze as he followed Reese into the park. There weren’t many people roaming its paths, which was hardly surprising for a Saturday morning this late in the year; but as Cheyenne and Reese approached the coffee cart, Cheyenne’s eye was caught by a petite red-haired woman who was setting up a French easel near the fountain in the center of the park.
“Don’t watch her too closely,” Reese murmured and stepped up to the coffee cart to order coffee for himself and Cheyenne and a sencha green tea for Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne turned away from the artist to watch the coffee man fill the order and considered what he’d learned from that brief glance. The artist was about their age, he thought, pretty but not stunning, but she had an air of sweetness about her. Was it that, more than the unusual shade of her hair, that had drawn his attention? Or was it the simple fact that she’d chosen to paint outside on a cold morning like this? Well, regardless, Reese had clearly brought Cheyenne specially to see her, but there had to be some other reason why Reese didn’t want her to see them see her.
It wasn’t until the two men had their drinks and were walking back to the car that Reese explained softly, “Her name is Grace Hendricks. She’s Finch’s fiancée-but she thinks he died in the ferry bombing.”
Cheyenne shot him a sidelong look. “Why?”
“He knew the Feds would kill her if they had any reason to think she knew about the Machine. He keeps an eye on her and makes sure she gets enough work to get by, but it’s too dangerous for her to know he’s still alive.”
Cheyenne nodded slowly.
“That’s not why I wanted you to know about her, though,” Reese continued. “It’s about Root.”
“Root?” Cheyenne echoed, confused.
“The first time Root kidnapped Finch was traumatic enough. She shot Alicia Corwin in front of him and then made him watch as she tortured and killed Denton Weeks-they were two of the original eight who’d known about Northern Lights, and she was trying to find it. But the second time, to get Finch to cooperate… she threatened Grace.”
Cheyenne’s already low opinion of Root plummeted further.
“From what Finch said, Grace had no idea they were even in the park that afternoon,” Reese went on. “He kept Root from getting within shouting distance of her. But I thought you should know that part of his history with Root, in case you think he’s acting weird about her.”
“I didn’t particularly,” Cheyenne replied. “But that does explain some things. Does Sam know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll keep it that way.”
“Thanks.” Reese smiled a little. “That’s the other reason I told you-I knew we could trust you.”
They were beyond the line of trees now, so it was safe for Cheyenne to glance back over his shoulder at the splash of red that was barely visible beside the fountain. “You care about her, too, don’t you?”
Reese’s smile broadened and softened at the same time. “I’ve spoken to her, once. She’s my best friend’s girl, and I have no plans to steal her, but… I dunno, I guess I get what he sees in her.” He punctuated that with a drink of coffee, but his eyes were sad. “Wish things were different so they could be together. Three years, and she’s still mourning for him and he’s still pining for her. I just wish I could do something about it.”
Cheyenne nodded. “And the Machine?”
Reese chuckled suddenly. “The way Finch tells it, the Machine set them up. It kept drawing his attention to her until he finally spoke to her.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it has emotions, but if it did, yeah, I’d say it likes her.”
Cheyenne waited until they were in the car and underway again to say, “Funny thing is, I wouldn’t have thought a man like Mr. Finch would fall for an artist.”
Reese chuckled again. “Sometimes it’s the opposites that attract. Sometimes it’s the similarities.”
“Like you and Miss Carter?”
Reese went quiet and still for a moment, probably considering the We’re just friends defense.
“You don’t have to lie, y’know. I’m not jealous, and I’m not gonna give you grief over it like Sam would.”
Reese sighed resignedly. “How long have you known?”
“From the day I met you, when she was in your kitchen. I saw how you looked at each other. Saw the disappointment in your eyes when she said she had to leave so soon after she arrived, couldn’t stay to supper. I’ve done my share o’ courtin’ and stood up as best man at a fair few weddings… I know how a man looks at the woman he loves.”
Reese didn’t say anything, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“If it helps any, I think she feels the same about you.”
“I… we… it’s not….”
“Not like you and Miss Morgan?”
Reese rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t know what you think about Zoe-”
“I’m not aimin’ to pry,” Cheyenne interrupted. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t treat ladies shamefully. But whatever you have with her, it’s not leadin’ to marriage, and I think you both know it.”
Reese deflated a little. “We faked it once. Had a number in the suburbs, had to pose as a married couple to avert suspicion. And… you’re right. We had fun, but it would never work out. If we tried it for real, we’d probably be divorced within a year.” Then he smiled wryly. “You should have seen the look on her face when I asked her, though. And the look Joss gave her when Zoe introduced herself as my wife….”
Cheyenne smiled. “I can imagine.”
Just then they arrived at their second stop, a bakery where Reese picked up a box of pastries, so it wasn’t until they were finally on their way to the library that Reese asked, “What’s your point about Joss?”
“Two points,” Cheyenne answered. “One, I don’t intend to come between the two of you, and I just thought I should say so ’fore any feelings get hurt.”
Reese raised an eyebrow. “Really? You think they might?”
“I’ve had too many friendships nigh on ruined ’cause the other fella thought I was after his girl. I don’t want that to happen here just ’cause I’ve been workin’ with Joss. I do care about her, and I want to help her win this fight. But there’s ways o’ carin’ that don’t lead to romance. And besides, I don’t belong here. You an’ Joss do.”
Reese nodded thoughtfully. “And the second reason?”
“I reckon you oughta speak to Joss ’fore it’s too late.”
“Too late? In what sense?”
“Look, even if we pull this off and we all come out unscathed, there’s still Vigilance an’ Decima an’ all the other risks that come with both your jobs. I know you both well enough by now to know neither one of you will give up those jobs. But do you really want to wait until one of you is mortally wounded to say how you feel?”
Reese winced.
“You’ve made that mistake before, haven’t you?” Cheyenne asked more gently.
“Yeah,” Reese admitted softly. “So has Joss.”
“Don’t make it again.”
“I’ll… I’ll give it some thought.” Reese parked in his usual spot for the final walk to the library, but after he shut off the engine, he sat for a moment and then smiled at Cheyenne. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Cheyenne replied with a nod, and they got out of the car together.
Inside, Bear met them on the landing of the floor on which the command center sat, but Mr. Finch was gazing wistfully at one of his computer monitors and seemed not to hear them approach. They were early, admittedly, but Cheyenne didn’t think that was the reason.
“Morning, Finch,” said Reese and set the pastries and tea on the desk.
“Good morning,” Mr. Finch murmured distractedly and took a drink of tea without looking away from the monitor, while Reese slipped a pastry to Bear. “She’s painting you, Mr. Bodie,” Mr. Finch added at a more conversational volume.
“Miss Hendricks?” Cheyenne asked, surprised. “I didn’t even know she’d seen me.”
“You are a hard man to miss,” Mr. Finch teased. But then his smile softened into a lovelorn one. “I’m glad, though. If it all goes wrong, or if… if you find your way home… we’ll have more left of you than just your music.” He paused. “I don’t think there’s anyone I’d trust to capture a person’s essence after so brief an encounter more than Grace.”
Cheyenne didn’t know quite what to say to that. Instead, he said, “For what it’s worth, sir… I hope things get better someday.”
“Thank you.” Then Mr. Finch took a deep breath and turned to face the other men. “I heard your conversation in the car about the trains. That addressed one of the questions I was going to raise, and I can arrange for a freight shipment in a train of, say, six boxcars to be sent from Long Island City through Jamaica Station to Port Jefferson, with instructions to leave Long Island City only at my signal and to leave the doors on the… fifth boxcar open. The two of you and Det. Carter will have to work out how to get Quinn inside.” He helped himself to a chocolate-filled croissant (Cheyenne never could remember the French name for the thing).
“Hold that thought,” said Reese as he and Cheyenne each took a doughnut. “What if the shipment were sent from Port Jefferson to Long Island City earlier in the day and the boxcars were empty for the eastbound run?”
“Then all the doors could be left open,” Cheyenne agreed, “and it wouldn’t matter so much which car we land on. Would give us room to move around inside, too.”
Mr. Finch’s mouth was full, but he nodded. “I’ll see what can be arranged,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Of course, this is all partly contingent upon Det. Carter giving us advance notice of when she plans to move against Quinn.”
Reese tilted his head in acknowledgement and washed down his bite of doughnut with a drink of coffee. “I don’t think it’ll be long-a week, maybe, two at the outside. Losing first the baseball and then Terney seems to have rattled HR. Carter just has to find the right button to push.”
“I’ll get as many of the pieces in place now as I possibly can, but I’ll still need at least a day’s notice to redirect the shipment.”
Thus began an intensive strategy session in which every possible alternative was considered, every conceivable weakness unpicked and accounted for, every assumption challenged, and every way of not involving Root discussed. Cheyenne thought several times that the whole thing would be much simpler if they weren’t in New York City, but he kept that opinion to himself. The plain truth was that the plan would work reliably only if whoever Quinn had at the judge’s house and at the Real Time Crime Center couldn’t get word to the rest of HR and get helicopters airborne before the team reached the boat, and the only way to ensure that without threatening innocent lives who might need the honest lawmen and first responders in town… was to have Root unleash the Machine.
At Mr. Finch’s defeated sigh, Reese said, “Like we said last night, Finch. Every other option is worse.”
“I know, I know. I just… never wanted the Machine to be used this way.” Mr. Finch looked at his watch. “I need to take Root her lunch anyway. If you gentlemen would be so kind….”
“’Course,” said Cheyenne.
Assembling Root’s tray took only a few minutes, and the three men trooped down to her floor in grim silence. Root was reading when they arrived and looked up in surprise.
“Wow,” she said. “An armed escort. Are you sure that’s just food on that tray, Harold?”
Mr. Finch was not amused. At a look from him, Reese unlocked the cage door and stood aside to let Mr. Finch pass.
Root’s expression shifted to worry as Mr. Finch set the tray on the table. “Harold? What’s wrong? Is… this about what the Machine told you about Joss Carter?”
“Yes,” Mr. Finch admitted softly and met her eyes. “The danger still is not imminent, and we have a plan to deal with the threat, but… we will require your assistance.”
Root laid her book aside. “Yes. Yes, I’ll help. Just let me go.”
“I’m afraid it will be no more than a temporary release. You will not be permitted to leave this floor, and I will remain with you at all times to monitor your activities.”
She huffed. “Really?! Why ask me to participate if you still don’t trust me?!”
“If there were any alternative to your involvement, Miss Groves, rest assured that I would have found it. Your willingness to inflict harm on others, like Miss Shaw, makes you as dangerous as ever. But if we are to save Det. Carter, we will need your… unique abilities.”
“I thought Cheyenne was-” Root broke off suddenly and looked toward the door of the cage, and Cheyenne wondered what she was hearing. Whatever it was, she listened for a moment and then sighed heavily. “Well. I suppose it’s better than nothing. A chance to stretch my legs a little more, maybe pick out a few of my own books….”
“But not escape,” Reese cautioned.
Root looked at him. “No. She wants me to stay here. Whatever her plan is to deal with Samaritan, I need to be here for the next step.” Then she looked away, frowning slightly as she listened again. “What a strange thing free will is,” she murmured. “She says she hadn’t even considered that escape route in her initial calculations, and even with all the variables she can control for in her simulations, she’s no more certain of the outcome than you are… but that may be the very thing that saves you.”
“Simulation ain’t prophecy,” Cheyenne noted.
“Even the very wise cannot see all ends,” Reese agreed.
“I know,” said Root, then smiled at them flirtatiously. “That’s why she likes you.”
Cheyenne had no earthly clue how to take that.
“Well,” said Mr. Finch and came back to the door. “We’ll let you get on with your lunch.”
As he left the cage, however, Root drifted toward the door herself, though she stayed inside. “She does like you, Cheyenne,” she insisted. “I mean, obviously she loves Harold, and I’ve known all along that she likes John. But even when I was in Stoneridge, she used to tell me about you, this… man who doesn’t exist. You baffle her sometimes, but she likes you, and she wants to help.”
Cheyenne slammed the door of the cage shut in her face.
That didn’t deter her. “We’re not that different, you and I.”
“I’m nothin’ like you,” Cheyenne snapped and closed the padlock.
“Aside from the technological issues-”
“I’ve got my vices, but they don’t include murder an’ blackmail.”
That shut her up for the moment, and the three men turned to go.
“You’re needed at home, Cheyenne,” she called after them. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
Cheyenne waited until they were on the stairs to look at Mr. Finch, who anticipated his question. “I think that will be all for today, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in.”
“Anything else you need while we’re out, Finch?” Reese asked.
The simple friendly question seemed to thaw Mr. Finch. The worse-than-usual stiffness went out of his gait, and he smiled gratefully up at Reese. “Thank you, Mr. Reese, but I truly do think we’ve finished our business for the day. But if you do hear anything new from Det. Carter….”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Mr. Finch turned to Cheyenne next. “And thank you, Mr. Bodie.”
“I’ll be interested to hear how that paintin’ comes out,” Cheyenne replied.
Mr. Finch’s smile broadened. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
Upstairs, Cheyenne and Reese collected their jackets and gave farewell scratches to Bear before they left. The drive back to Cheyenne’s apartment was fairly quiet, although when they arrived, Reese reminded Cheyenne to set his clocks back that night. (Cheyenne had never heard of Daylight Savings until that week, and while his friends had assured him that he wasn’t the only one who found the concept odd, it made even less sense to him as someone who’d grown up without clocks altogether and was still used to telling time mostly by the sun and moon.) But when he reached his floor in the apartment building, he discovered that Root had been telling the truth. Elias’ man Anthony was lounging just outside his door. Cheyenne reached into his pocket and dialed his telephone before pulling out his key.
“Mr. Wade,” Anthony called, straightening as Cheyenne approached.
“Anthony,” Cheyenne returned with a nod, deciding not to ask how Elias had learned this address or the alias Cheyenne was using here. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Nah, not too long. Like to talk to you for a minute.”
Cheyenne tilted his head, unlocked the door, and ushered Anthony through it. “What can I do for you?” he asked once they were both inside and the door was closed again.
“My boss wanted me to ask you how you’re doing with that chess problem from the other day,” Anthony answered.
“Oh. Well, uh… maybe I’d better just show you.” Cheyenne hung up his hat. “Mind if I get my chess set out?”
Anthony shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Making sure Anthony could see exactly what he was doing, Cheyenne retrieved his chess set from the drawer where he kept it, laid the board out on the coffee table, and began setting out the pieces. Before he got too far, however, he stopped and got out his poker chips as well. Anthony’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t ask what Cheyenne was doing or why; clearly he remembered the part of the conversation in which Elias had suggested they needed some way to indicate more players. So Cheyenne did his best to indicate the current state of affairs with the expanded color options-the Terney bishop off the board on a red chip, for example, the Laskey pawn on white’s back rank on a blue chip, and so on. He made sure to put only as many white pieces on the board as there were members of Mr. Finch’s team, but he piled the black poker chips behind the black king and the red and green chips to either side of the board. As an afterthought, he put one green chip, representing Elias, on white’s back rank behind the rook that stood for Miss Carter.
Then he looked up at Anthony. “Show him that and tell him I know the gambit but not every move. Let me know what he says.”
Anthony nodded once, took out his pocket telephone, and snapped a photo of the board. Then he fiddled with the screen, and a moment later, there was an answering chime. “Checkmate in ten moves,” he read. “Key fork at move nine, possibly set up with move eight. Will send a hint to your rook. My best to Harold and John.”
Cheyenne nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, and thank him for me.”
“Will do. You have a good afternoon.” And Anthony left before Cheyenne could even get up to let him out.
Cheyenne sighed and pulled his telephone out of his pocket. “Did you get all that?” he asked into it.
“Ten days,” Mr. Finch replied. “And something key happening on the ninth day.”
“Gives us a timetable, anyway.”
“So it does… but I do wonder just what Elias knows-and how soon Det. Carter plans to tell us.”
“So,” John began when he called Carter the next morning. “Got any plans for Veterans Day yet?”
Carter chuckled wryly. “Busted, huh?”
“What’d Elias have to say?”
“John-”
“Joss, if you’re gonna start a war-”
She huffed. “All right. The Russians have a big shipment of drugs coming in that night. HR’s supposed to give them protection for it, but he said he’s heard HR’s planning to up their price to make up for losing the baseball. If Cheyenne’s right about Yogorov’s vice bein’ pride where Quinn’s is greed….”
“Especially if Terney’s been telling tall tales about Simmons….”
“Odds are, Yogorov’s gonna tell Simmons what he can do with his higher prices and walk away from the whole deal.”
He nodded. “Is that enough? Or are you going to start that war?”
She sighed. “You once asked me to trust you to do what needed to be done.”
He sighed in turn. He hadn’t been thinking straight that night, when she’d come back from New Rochelle-finding out all about Jessica, apparently, and about who he’d been Before-to catch him with wife-beating Marshal Brad Jennings in his trunk, headed to Mexico. When he’d finally calmed down after delivering Jennings, still breathing, to the Federales with enough drugs to put him away for a very long time, John had realized why Finch had tried to keep him out of that case. But he had kept his promise to Carter by not killing Jennings, just like he hadn’t killed Peter Arndt after finding out what Arndt had done to Jessica. And he knew that was what she was asking him to trust her with now: the ability to remember where the lines were and not cross them, no matter how reckless her actions were.
“I don’t like it,” he said aloud. “But it would sell Yogorov on the idea that HR is the enemy, and it would sell Quinn on the idea that you’re flying solo.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Just… promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“I will, if you promise not to tell Cheyenne until it’s too late for him to stop me.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “If anyone gets to ruin your fun on this case, it’s me.”
Her answering laugh warmed him to the core. He’d heard it all too seldom since her relationship with Beecher had soured that spring.
“So we’ll plan to take Quinn on the 12th,” he concluded.
“Right,” she agreed.
“Will I see you again before then?”
“Better not. When I tell Quinn I’m closin’ the book on Cal’s murder, I’m pretty sure he’ll start havin’ me tailed.”
“All right,” he said, not bothering to keep the worry and disappointment out of his voice.
“It’s nine days, John.”
“A lot can happen in nine days, Joss.”
There was a pause before she said gently, “I know.”
There was so much to be said-so much Bodie would have urged John to say-but he didn’t have the words to say it here and now. All that came out was, “I’ll see you at Monahan’s.”
“See you then,” she said and hung up.
He sat staring at his darkened phone for a long time afterward, wondering why it was so hard for him to say three short words. Then he finally pulled himself together and started making phone calls to arrange a way for himself and Bodie to practice getting Quinn on and off the train.
“We’ve timed it eight times,” a frustrated Cheyenne reported at a reduced strategy meeting with Mr. Finch, Reese, and Fusco Friday evening. “There’s no way we can get Quinn and ourselves off the roof and into the boxcar ’fore we have to jump out at the used car lot. If it were just the three of us, we could make it, but Quinn’s liable to put up a fight, an’ I can’t see any way to cut the time.”
“You won’t have to,” Mr. Finch replied. “In arranging the train, I discovered that one of our former numbers now drives freight trains for the Long Island Railroad. It was a simple matter to have him assigned to our shipment. He’ll stop the train in the park here”-he pointed to a spot on the track, out of sight of the main road but near a walking trail and considerably closer to Monahan’s house than the bridges at the far southern end of the park. “Once you reach the train, you should be able to board in less than thirty seconds, which shouldn’t raise any questions at Jamaica Station. The trick, of course, will be in getting the train to the right spot at exactly the right moment.”
“And gettin’ yourselves there as well,” Fusco chimed in. “I drove down there yesterday. There’s only one footpath you can use to get across Jackie Robinson, and that’s here.” He pointed out the path in question on the map; it led almost directly to the point where they were supposed to meet the train. “Anywhere else you’d try to cross, there’s a six-foot fence on both sides of the road.” Then he pulled his finger northward from the park. “But if you try to cross Union Turnpike there, you’ll be runnin’ across five lanes of traffic and two medians with no stoplight and no cover.”
“What’s the traffic like that late at night?” Reese asked.
Fusco shrugged. “Eh, pretty dead, if I’m honest. Not that it’s all that busy durin’ daylight hours, except rush hour. You could probably make it-if it’s not wall-to-wall HR cruisers before you even get there.”
“That’s what we’re counting on Root to ensure.” Reese studied the map. “Looks like our best bet is to drive down here to Metropolitan, ditch the car at a bus stop, and go the rest of the way on foot. That should get us into the park before they have time to get organized.”
Cheyenne rubbed the back of his neck. “The one thing we can’t plan for is people, bystanders. Root can handle cameras, but she can’t affect human eyes.”
Reese shook his head. “That would be a problem anywhere in New York. The other judges on Zoe’s list all live in areas that are just as built up. What Root can do is… well, cut the telegraph lines, effectively, make it so any messages have to be sent by runner. Most New Yorkers who’ve only witnessed something odd and want to call the cops might be willing to try a second time if the first phone call gets cut off, but they won’t usually try a third.”
Fusco grimaced. “Y’know, this whole thing would be a lot easier if Carter just went to that judge whose kid you guys rescued a couple years ago… what’s his name, Gates?”
“Unfortunately, Judge Gates was appointed to a position on the State Court of Appeals this spring,” said Mr. Finch. “However, with Det. Carter’s permission, I have sent him a copy of the key to her safe deposit box and a request that he not begin swearing out warrants until after we begin our operation here.”
“Besides, Gates was clean,” Reese added. “Even if he were willing to help us trap Quinn, there’s a good chance Quinn wouldn’t buy it.”
“I hate this town,” Cheyenne muttered and didn’t realize he’d finally said it out loud until the other men gave him sympathetic looks and Reese put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’ll be a lot cleaner by this time Wednesday,” said Reese.
That wasn’t exactly what Cheyenne had meant, but he took the attempted comfort in the spirit in which it was given and returned a grim smile.
Cheyenne spent Monday trying to rest and distract himself by learning more about Armistice Day and World War I. Whatever the key event of the day was supposed to be, no one had asked for his help with it, so he could only assume it was something Miss Carter could handle herself. Worrying about it wouldn’t help-not that he was able to stop worrying entirely, but he did try, at least until he finally gave up on All Quiet on the Western Front and spent a good two hours in prayer.
Arriving at the library the next day with Reese and discovering that Mr. Finch had gotten thirty-eight numbers that morning, all of them members of HR, caught Cheyenne somewhat off-guard. Learning that the numbers had been generated after a Russian drug shipment had been stolen and that the person who’d laid the ambush to frame HR was Miss Carter was even more worrisome. But worst was discovering that Elias had given Miss Carter the hint about the shipment after Anthony’s visit-which Reese had known and Mr. Finch and Sam had suspected.
“Did everyone know about this besides me?!” Cheyenne finally exploded.
“Fusco didn’t,” Sam noted with a shrug.
“She knew you’d try to stop her,” Reese added.
Cheyenne rounded on him. “So why didn’t you?”
Reese didn’t flinch. “Because she needs to sell the idea that she’s gone rogue and has no backup. And she asked me to trust her.”
“Not everything she’s done the past few days has been this reckless,” Mr. Finch chimed in. “She was able to bluejack Quinn’s phone Sunday morning, which has allowed me to record some rather important pieces of evidence. I’m sure she’ll still try to goad Quinn into confessing that he ordered Beecher’s murder, but that will be only the final nail in his proverbial coffin.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “How could you let her-”
“Bodie,” Reese interrupted. “She’s a warrior woman.”
Cheyenne looked away. He’d known that about her from the start, but he didn’t see it as a reason to let her do something so foolish.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Sam insisted.
“And it’s not like she has gone full rogue,” Reese continued. “She hasn’t destroyed her phone; she hasn’t changed the plan. Elias called these moves ten days ago, and if he’s right, we will get Quinn tonight.”
Cheyenne looked back at Reese, intending to ask why he wasn’t more worried about Miss Carter’s safety in the meantime. But something in Reese’s eyes answered the question before Cheyenne could voice it: Reese was deeply worried, but because Miss Carter had asked for his trust, he was willing to defend her choice.
“I still don’t like it,” Cheyenne grumbled.
“Neither do we,” Reese returned, which was probably as close as he’d get to admitting how terrified he was for her. “All we can do is be there tonight.”
Cheyenne sighed heavily. “All right.”
“That reminds me,” said Mr. Finch and hobbled off into the stacks for a moment, then returned carrying a hat box and a garment bag, which he handed to Cheyenne. “I thought perhaps you might be more comfortable wearing this suit tonight than your regular one.”
Puzzled, Cheyenne opened the garment bag to reveal an outfit that almost exactly matched the one his friend Robbie James had given him when she’d strong-armed him into managing her casino for a short time. The black wool suit must have been made from a period pattern; the lines were much closer to what he was used to wearing back home than to modern suits, and the coat wouldn’t be in the way of his guns. There was also a vest made of silver silk brocade and a white shirt with a black string tie. It still looked to him like something to be buried in, but if it did herald trouble, at least he’d go out looking like himself. The hat box contained a matching black hat-but the band was made of beads woven in patterns he recognized from childhood.
“I commissioned that from a Northern Cheyenne artist,” Mr. Finch stated as Cheyenne turned the hat to look at the protective symbols and lines of coup count that ringed the band. “It’s more colorful than I’d anticipated, but she said traditional beading is hardly ever done with a black-and-white palette.”
Cheyenne nodded, still examining the design. But then he stopped and ran his finger over one spot that wasn’t traditional. At each end of the band, mostly hidden by the horsehair tie, the artist had placed a set of fox tracks… in grey beads.
“I hope it’s acceptable,” Mr. Finch continued, sounding worried.
Cheyenne finally looked back at him and smiled. “It’s good medicine. Thank you, Mr. Finch.”
He could only hope, as he put the hat back in the box, that it would be enough to protect Reese and Miss Carter as well.
Next
A/N: I’m doing an “it’s AU anyway” handwave in this chapter and the next because while the direct rail line from Long Island City to Jamaica Station that goes through Forest Park was apparently open in November 2013, the Wayback Machine didn’t capture a schedule for that line, which suggests it was for freight only. I therefore ask any New Yorkers who know differently to kindly cut me a break.
Chapter 10
The Calm Before
“Hey, kid,” Simmons’ voice called as Mike Laskey limped past an alley on his way to the coffee cart the next morning. “C’mere.”
Here we go, Mike thought and steeled himself as he turned aside and limped over to where Simmons was waiting for him.
Simmons frowned, noticing the way Mike was walking. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, I fell last night, cut my leg,” Mike lied. “I had a friend stitch it up for me. She says I’ll be fine on patrol-y’know, as long as nothing crazy happens.”
Simmons chuckled. “Kid, you don’t know from crazy.”
Mike was pretty sure the last seventy-two hours qualified: being ordered to kill a man, having his partner fake the murder for him, being ordered to kill a girl, having his partner knock him out with one punch to make it look good, having some chick he’d never seen before field-strip his weapon like it was nothing, having that same chick turn up at thirty minutes to midnight to stitch up a gunshot graze in his leg like it was nothing. But craziest of all had been Merritt-“dear boy, I’m a method actor,” fluent-in-five-Native-languages, lost-his-wallet-in-a-poker-game, definitely-not-the-Suit James Thornton Merritt-stepping out of the shadows with a Desert Eagle to save Mike’s life. Mike didn’t know if Carter could have made that shot; he wasn’t that good or fast himself. He’d have thought the whole thing was a dream if he hadn’t woken up with five stitches in his leg. He couldn’t say any of that to Simmons, though, so he only smiled.
“Have you seen Terney?” Simmons asked.
Mike shrugged and shook his head. “No, sir, not since we left the auction house yesterday.”
“He didn’t come by your place last night?”
“No, sir.”
Simmons swore. “I told him I wanted the two of you to find that baseball.”
“He never arrived.”
Simmons swore again.
Hesitantly, mostly because he hadn’t discussed this idea with Carter, Mike suggested, “Maybe he found the real ball and decided to keep it for himself.”
Simmons stared at him like he’d just grown a third head. “Terney?! I’ve known him since we went through the Academy!”
“That much money could be a temptation to anyone. And you’re the one who taught me the difference between knowing someone and trusting them.”
Simmons was still staring at Mike when his phone rang. He answered, listened a moment, and said, “You’re kidding. When?” He listened some more, with the occasional “Uh-huh” to show he was still there, and finally swore bitterly. “Find him,” he ordered, hung up, and looked at Mike again. “Looks like you could be right, Laskey. Terney showed up at Bellevue last night with a .50-caliber hole in his wrist, but he didn’t call any of us. He called Peter Yogorov-and told him I shot him.”
Mike shook his head. “That’s crazy, boss.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” Simmons shook his head in turn. “All right, get lost. And take care of that leg, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mike and went on his way. Fortunately, the line at the coffee cart was short, and Carter was waiting just around the corner, so it wasn’t long until Mike was sinking into his seat in the patrol car with a groan and handing Carter her coffee.
“Heard what you said to Simmons,” she said as he shut his door.
He looked at her. “Yeah? How’d I do?”
She smiled. “Perfect.”
He smiled back and relaxed.
“And look what I found taped to my door this morning.” She handed him a jewel case with a CD in it labeled FOR CARTER in large block letters.
He frowned. “Is that Det. Terney’s handwriting?”
“Yep. It’s a full videotaped confession. I don’t know what kind of a deal he made with Yogorov last night, but it looks like after he left the hospital, he took a laptop into the conference room at the Eighth and recorded it there.” She took the CD back and hid it in the glovebox. “The most important thing is, he names the head of HR, so that gives me enough to bring the whole rotten bunch down.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So what happens now?”
“Now we have our coffee and get on with our shift. And tonight?” She put the car in gear. “We have a council of war.”
Cheyenne had Reese pick him up at eight that evening for the strategy meeting, which took place at the second safe house. Mr. Finch didn’t want Collier to overhear anything he shouldn’t, and Reese and Cheyenne had agreed. Laskey seemed to be surprised by just how many friends Miss Carter had-the team numbered seven in all, counting Miss Carter but not counting Miss Morgan, Root, or Elias, none of whom were there-but while that was better than her taking on all of HR and the Bratva alone, Cheyenne would still have felt more at ease with larger numbers on their side. Still, as Reese pointed out, overwhelming numbers didn’t always carry the day, and Miss Carter planned to have the FBI round up the rank-and-file members of each organization. Quinn was the one man she wanted to arrest personally; if they could get Simmons at the same time, so much the better.
The idea was to set a trap-or rather, a counter-trap-for Quinn by luring him out when Miss Carter went to a judge after hours to get a warrant for his arrest. Laskey, by unanimous agreement, was assigned to guard Collier at the safe house. Mr. Finch and Bear would naturally be at the library, recording any last incriminating evidence and overseeing the operation. The main assault would come from Miss Carter, Reese, and Cheyenne; Fusco and Shaw were to provide backup once the team started escorting Quinn to the federal building downtown to place him in FBI custody. Miss Morgan had already provided Miss Carter with a list of judges suspected to be on HR’s payroll, and Miss Carter had selected one, named Andrew Monahan, who was most likely to alert Quinn when she called and to allow HR to set a trap for her. The main problem was that Monahan lived in Queens. While the distance to Manhattan wasn’t insurmountable, the area was too built up for a quick getaway, and then there was the problem of crossing the Hudson River to Manhattan Island.
“There’s really only two options to get across here,” Fusco pointed out, “take a train or cross a bridge. The minute word gets out that you guys’ve got Quinn, HR’s gonna throw up checkpoints on every bridge and have men checkin’ every train station between Monahan’s house and Manhattan.”
Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. “Only two options?”
“We can’t fly in,” said Reese. “It’s illegal to land a helicopter in Manhattan, and even if we tried an ultralight, they’d have someone watching every dirt strip where we could possibly land.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ of flyin’.” In fact, Cheyenne usually forgot that was possible these days; helicopters still took him by surprise.
“What’s left?”
Cheyenne put his finger on the map squarely in the middle of Jamaica Bay. “A boat.”
Fusco chuckled. “That’s a lotta open ground to cover there, Cowboy.”
“Not as much as you’d think.” Cheyenne backed up to the judge’s house. “For one thing, they’ll be expectin’ us to go straight toward Manhattan, not away from it. So the first step is gettin’ a few streets away an’ then headin’ down here to Forest Park.”
Sobering, Fusco hummed thoughtfully. “Hafta find a way across Jackie Robinson Parkway, but once you do, that tree cover’s pretty solid.”
“Could we get horses through there?”
“Yeah, probably, if you really want to. There’s walkin’ trails. But it’s no good tryin’ to get outta the park on horseback.”
“I wasn’t figurin’ on it.” Cheyenne pointed next to a rail line that crossed the park. “If we time it right, we should be able to hop a train here that’ll take us toward Jamaica Station.”
“Toward, not to?” Miss Carter asked.
“That’s right.” Cheyenne followed the line in that direction with his finger but stopped where it crossed Jamaica Avenue. “The train should start slowin’ down about here, give us a chance to jump off.”
“Hey, I know that corner,” Laskey chimed in. “There’s a used car lot just down the embankment from the tracks.”
Sam brightened. “So if we stash a car there earlier in the day….”
Reese put his finger down next to Cheyenne’s and traced the next leg. “Lefferts to Conduit to Cohancy to 157th is our fastest route to a marina.”
Cheyenne picked up from Howard Beach. “We sail around thisaway and up to the far side o’ Battery Park-say, the North Cove Marina. We can walk the rest in a quarter of an hour.”
“It sounds good in principle,” said Miss Carter. “But you’re assuming they’ll all be staked out in the train stations and subway stations and along the bridges even when we don’t show up after a couple of hours. That may not work if they find my car in the park or get extra manpower on the streets.”
Reese sighed. “Or if they send helicopters while we’re still in open water. We’ll need some way to jam all their communications.”
“That won’t be so easy,” said Fusco. “After the last two times you guys pulled that trick, the department’s been takin’ steps to harden its communications platforms to stop you from doin’ it again.”
“And I can’t justify taking all emergency bands down for as long as it might take to get Quinn to the federal building,” Mr. Finch added. “Too many innocent lives could be lost.”
“So you need someone who can selectively block HR,” Sam stated.
The room fell silent. Everyone but Laskey knew she meant Root, although of course neither Miss Carter nor Fusco knew why Sam would think Root could do such a thing-and Cheyenne wished he didn’t know.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Mr. Finch.
“I don’t trust her either,” Sam insisted, “but she may be our only option.”
“We are talkin’ about the crazy chick who kidnapped Glasses, right?” Fusco asked. “Didn’t she just kidnap you, too?”
Sam rolled her eyes. “You think I’ve forgotten that?!”
Mr. Finch shook his head. “Root is far too dangerous for me to even consider letting her help us.”
“I don’t trust her, either, sir,” said Cheyenne, deeply uneasy but still seeing Sam’s point. “But she may be the best bet we have of gettin’ things done the rest of us can’t handle.”
“Mr. Merritt-”
“You heard what she said the other night.”
Mr. Finch hesitated a moment before responding, “The analog interface is offline for maintenance.”
“There is only so much I can do in this situation. I’m a fast gun and a good scout, but I can’t jam radios.”
“Who else would we ask?” Reese wondered quietly. “Collier’s not a hacker. Neither is Elias. Greenfield’s in the wind. We can’t trust Leon Tao, and he’s only useful with financial stuff anyway. So who’s left?”
“You wouldn’t have to let her go,” Sam pressed before Mr. Finch could come up with an answer. “Just lengthen her leash, like, a foot.”
Mr. Finch shook his head again. “I’m sorry. There has to be another way.”
“Finch, we’re on the razor’s edge with this one,” said Reese. “One slip, and we could all get killed. Every other option is worse-we’ve just gone over all of them. You know what I think of Root after what she did to you, but if she can give us that lifeline, just this once… we’ve worked with Elias with less cause.”
“That hasn’t always gone well for us, Mr. Reese.”
“He saved my life in Rikers.”
Cheyenne stole a glance at Laskey, who was sitting next to him. The poor kid looked about like Cheyenne had felt the night the team had met with Miss Morgan: somewhere between bewildered and spooked. It was a good thing Laskey didn’t know about the Machine, or Collier might recruit him into Vigilance without even trying.
“She’s still a fruitcake,” Fusco grumbled.
“No one’s disputin’ that,” said Cheyenne.
“No,” Miss Carter agreed thoughtfully. “But sometimes when you need all hands on deck… it means you have to let some guys out of the brig until the storm’s over.”
Mr. Finch looked over the map again and studied the pictures of the house and its surroundings. Then he sighed heavily. “I will… consider what terms to present to her tomorrow.”
The other long-term members of the team looked at each other in mingled relief, annoyance, and grim determination. It felt an awful lot like the times Cheyenne had had no choice but to trust an outlaw with his life. At least this time, he wasn’t in the bind alone-and neither was Miss Carter.
Laskey leaned toward Cheyenne and murmured, “I don’t understand what just happened.”
“I hope you never do,” Cheyenne murmured back.
The next morning, Cheyenne was startled to be woken before dawn by a call from Reese. “Finch wants us at the library at 9,” Reese stated. “I’ll pick you up at 7:30.”
Cheyenne frowned at his alarm clock, which stubbornly insisted that it was a quarter to 7. It shouldn’t take an hour and a half to get from his apartment to the library, even with traffic. “Why so early?”
“Need to make a couple stops on our way.”
Cheyenne sighed. “Is it a case? I was plannin’ to do my washin’ today.” He should have done it that Monday, of course, but the Price case had put paid to that plan-he couldn’t very well have taken his wash to the safe house, after all-and now he was out of white shirts and clean handkerchiefs, although he still had bandanas.
“No, casual’s fine,” Reese replied, understanding the real question. “I think he wants to go over the plan again before he talks to Root.”
And that probably meant Mr. Finch wanted not only to be sure Root was their only option but also to have Cheyenne and Reese for backup as well as moral support. Cheyenne would need his guns, then, despite not wearing the suit. His new buckskin jacket should hide the shoulder holster well enough.
He sighed and got up. “All right. See you then.”
Breakfast and a shower got Cheyenne awake enough to hit the trail, although he was definitely going to need more coffee before facing Root. He dressed and threw on his boot holster, shoulder holster, and belt with knife sheath; then he reached for his gun belt-and stopped himself with a heavy sigh. For all the ways he’d gotten used to this year, the habits of his entire adult life died hard, and he missed his old life, his old friends, his horse.
He wanted to go home.
It must have still been showing when Reese met him at the curb, precisely on time, because no sooner had Cheyenne gotten in the car than Reese asked, “Problems?”
“Homesick,” Cheyenne admitted. “Ironic for someone who ain’t lived in one place for this long but once or twice in all his life, but still.”
Reese nodded. “Given any thought to what sort of party favors you want to bring to this shivaree we’re planning?”
Cheyenne shook his head. “Not yet.”
“No reason you can’t take a Winchester and your revolver.”
Cheyenne blinked. “Really?”
Reese shrugged. “We’re going in together. No reason to keep up the pretense.”
“Well, a Winchester might be overkill inside a house. Might be harder to handle gettin’ on an’ off the train, too. But I might just wear my revolver, thanks.”
“About the train: I don’t think horses would gain us any speed in getting to the tracks. I looked at aerial photos last night, and Fusco’s right-about the only way through the trees other than on foot is on the walking trails, which a cop trained in helicopter search would be able to follow pretty easily. Our best bet’s sticking to the points where the trees are thickest, which is just where a horse can’t go. And there’s the problem of what we’d do with the horses once we reached the track.”
“That’s a good point.” Cheyenne rubbed wearily at his forehead, unsure whether he really had a headache coming on or if it was just lack of coffee. He’d had one cup with breakfast, but that clearly hadn’t been enough.
“The other problem is convincing Quinn to make the jumps. Getting off, we can just push him, but getting on while it’s at speed….”
“Are there any bridges we could jump from?”
“Ooh. Maybe. I’ll look. Of course, odds are that they’re clear at the other end of the park.”
“If I remember the scale right, though, it’s no more’n a mile from Monahan’s house. We should be able to manage that.”
“The snag with jumping down onto the train is….”
“Getting inside,” they chorused.
“Or at least gettin’ down between cars,” Cheyenne qualified.
Reese nodded. “We’ll have to check schedules, find out when a train bound for Jamaica Station comes through there and whether it’s likely to be passenger or freight.”
“Freight might be safer.”
“They may not be old-fashioned boxcars, though. Even modern boxcars don’t have platforms at the ends, and a tanker or flatcar could be tricky to hold onto, even for a short stretch.”
Cheyenne grimaced. “I don’t suppose Mr. Finch would spring for a private train.”
Reese laughed. “Wouldn’t hurt to ask! I think he’s already working on sourcing a car to sell to the used car lot-old enough that it won’t look suspicious and won’t have GPS but nice enough that it won’t be a surprise when we ‘steal’ it. ’Course, I don’t mind just hotwiring one of the cars already on the lot, but this way we’ll know what antitheft devices the car has and won’t have to waste time with the hotwiring.”
Cheyenne still wasn’t comfortable with that kind of casual theft, even for a short drive, so he said nothing.
“So,” Reese continued after a pause. “What did Root have to say the other night?”
Cheyenne frowned at the change of subject. “Sorry?”
“You said something to Finch last night about his having heard what Root said. But she didn’t say anything about this mission that Shaw and I heard.”
“Oh.” Cheyenne sighed. “The Machine asked me to save Miss Carter ’cause the ‘other available assets’ won’t be enough, an’ it said… if she dies, Samaritan will rise.”
Reese swore quietly.
“Dunno how it reckons that or why it thinks my gun can make that much of a difference, but that’s what Root said it was tellin’ her.”
“And it’s never wrong. What’d you say?”
“That I’d do it because she’s my friend, not because it asked me to.”
Reese looked a little relieved at that answer, but he only nodded slowly and found a place to park. “Our first stop’s over there,” he stated, nodding toward a line of trees a block or two away. “There’s a coffee cart in the park-and something I need to show you.”
Somewhat surprised, Cheyenne got out at the same time Reese did and held his jacket close against the early morning sea breeze as he followed Reese into the park. There weren’t many people roaming its paths, which was hardly surprising for a Saturday morning this late in the year; but as Cheyenne and Reese approached the coffee cart, Cheyenne’s eye was caught by a petite red-haired woman who was setting up a French easel near the fountain in the center of the park.
“Don’t watch her too closely,” Reese murmured and stepped up to the coffee cart to order coffee for himself and Cheyenne and a sencha green tea for Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne turned away from the artist to watch the coffee man fill the order and considered what he’d learned from that brief glance. The artist was about their age, he thought, pretty but not stunning, but she had an air of sweetness about her. Was it that, more than the unusual shade of her hair, that had drawn his attention? Or was it the simple fact that she’d chosen to paint outside on a cold morning like this? Well, regardless, Reese had clearly brought Cheyenne specially to see her, but there had to be some other reason why Reese didn’t want her to see them see her.
It wasn’t until the two men had their drinks and were walking back to the car that Reese explained softly, “Her name is Grace Hendricks. She’s Finch’s fiancée-but she thinks he died in the ferry bombing.”
Cheyenne shot him a sidelong look. “Why?”
“He knew the Feds would kill her if they had any reason to think she knew about the Machine. He keeps an eye on her and makes sure she gets enough work to get by, but it’s too dangerous for her to know he’s still alive.”
Cheyenne nodded slowly.
“That’s not why I wanted you to know about her, though,” Reese continued. “It’s about Root.”
“Root?” Cheyenne echoed, confused.
“The first time Root kidnapped Finch was traumatic enough. She shot Alicia Corwin in front of him and then made him watch as she tortured and killed Denton Weeks-they were two of the original eight who’d known about Northern Lights, and she was trying to find it. But the second time, to get Finch to cooperate… she threatened Grace.”
Cheyenne’s already low opinion of Root plummeted further.
“From what Finch said, Grace had no idea they were even in the park that afternoon,” Reese went on. “He kept Root from getting within shouting distance of her. But I thought you should know that part of his history with Root, in case you think he’s acting weird about her.”
“I didn’t particularly,” Cheyenne replied. “But that does explain some things. Does Sam know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll keep it that way.”
“Thanks.” Reese smiled a little. “That’s the other reason I told you-I knew we could trust you.”
They were beyond the line of trees now, so it was safe for Cheyenne to glance back over his shoulder at the splash of red that was barely visible beside the fountain. “You care about her, too, don’t you?”
Reese’s smile broadened and softened at the same time. “I’ve spoken to her, once. She’s my best friend’s girl, and I have no plans to steal her, but… I dunno, I guess I get what he sees in her.” He punctuated that with a drink of coffee, but his eyes were sad. “Wish things were different so they could be together. Three years, and she’s still mourning for him and he’s still pining for her. I just wish I could do something about it.”
Cheyenne nodded. “And the Machine?”
Reese chuckled suddenly. “The way Finch tells it, the Machine set them up. It kept drawing his attention to her until he finally spoke to her.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it has emotions, but if it did, yeah, I’d say it likes her.”
Cheyenne waited until they were in the car and underway again to say, “Funny thing is, I wouldn’t have thought a man like Mr. Finch would fall for an artist.”
Reese chuckled again. “Sometimes it’s the opposites that attract. Sometimes it’s the similarities.”
“Like you and Miss Carter?”
Reese went quiet and still for a moment, probably considering the We’re just friends defense.
“You don’t have to lie, y’know. I’m not jealous, and I’m not gonna give you grief over it like Sam would.”
Reese sighed resignedly. “How long have you known?”
“From the day I met you, when she was in your kitchen. I saw how you looked at each other. Saw the disappointment in your eyes when she said she had to leave so soon after she arrived, couldn’t stay to supper. I’ve done my share o’ courtin’ and stood up as best man at a fair few weddings… I know how a man looks at the woman he loves.”
Reese didn’t say anything, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“If it helps any, I think she feels the same about you.”
“I… we… it’s not….”
“Not like you and Miss Morgan?”
Reese rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t know what you think about Zoe-”
“I’m not aimin’ to pry,” Cheyenne interrupted. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t treat ladies shamefully. But whatever you have with her, it’s not leadin’ to marriage, and I think you both know it.”
Reese deflated a little. “We faked it once. Had a number in the suburbs, had to pose as a married couple to avert suspicion. And… you’re right. We had fun, but it would never work out. If we tried it for real, we’d probably be divorced within a year.” Then he smiled wryly. “You should have seen the look on her face when I asked her, though. And the look Joss gave her when Zoe introduced herself as my wife….”
Cheyenne smiled. “I can imagine.”
Just then they arrived at their second stop, a bakery where Reese picked up a box of pastries, so it wasn’t until they were finally on their way to the library that Reese asked, “What’s your point about Joss?”
“Two points,” Cheyenne answered. “One, I don’t intend to come between the two of you, and I just thought I should say so ’fore any feelings get hurt.”
Reese raised an eyebrow. “Really? You think they might?”
“I’ve had too many friendships nigh on ruined ’cause the other fella thought I was after his girl. I don’t want that to happen here just ’cause I’ve been workin’ with Joss. I do care about her, and I want to help her win this fight. But there’s ways o’ carin’ that don’t lead to romance. And besides, I don’t belong here. You an’ Joss do.”
Reese nodded thoughtfully. “And the second reason?”
“I reckon you oughta speak to Joss ’fore it’s too late.”
“Too late? In what sense?”
“Look, even if we pull this off and we all come out unscathed, there’s still Vigilance an’ Decima an’ all the other risks that come with both your jobs. I know you both well enough by now to know neither one of you will give up those jobs. But do you really want to wait until one of you is mortally wounded to say how you feel?”
Reese winced.
“You’ve made that mistake before, haven’t you?” Cheyenne asked more gently.
“Yeah,” Reese admitted softly. “So has Joss.”
“Don’t make it again.”
“I’ll… I’ll give it some thought.” Reese parked in his usual spot for the final walk to the library, but after he shut off the engine, he sat for a moment and then smiled at Cheyenne. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Cheyenne replied with a nod, and they got out of the car together.
Inside, Bear met them on the landing of the floor on which the command center sat, but Mr. Finch was gazing wistfully at one of his computer monitors and seemed not to hear them approach. They were early, admittedly, but Cheyenne didn’t think that was the reason.
“Morning, Finch,” said Reese and set the pastries and tea on the desk.
“Good morning,” Mr. Finch murmured distractedly and took a drink of tea without looking away from the monitor, while Reese slipped a pastry to Bear. “She’s painting you, Mr. Bodie,” Mr. Finch added at a more conversational volume.
“Miss Hendricks?” Cheyenne asked, surprised. “I didn’t even know she’d seen me.”
“You are a hard man to miss,” Mr. Finch teased. But then his smile softened into a lovelorn one. “I’m glad, though. If it all goes wrong, or if… if you find your way home… we’ll have more left of you than just your music.” He paused. “I don’t think there’s anyone I’d trust to capture a person’s essence after so brief an encounter more than Grace.”
Cheyenne didn’t know quite what to say to that. Instead, he said, “For what it’s worth, sir… I hope things get better someday.”
“Thank you.” Then Mr. Finch took a deep breath and turned to face the other men. “I heard your conversation in the car about the trains. That addressed one of the questions I was going to raise, and I can arrange for a freight shipment in a train of, say, six boxcars to be sent from Long Island City through Jamaica Station to Port Jefferson, with instructions to leave Long Island City only at my signal and to leave the doors on the… fifth boxcar open. The two of you and Det. Carter will have to work out how to get Quinn inside.” He helped himself to a chocolate-filled croissant (Cheyenne never could remember the French name for the thing).
“Hold that thought,” said Reese as he and Cheyenne each took a doughnut. “What if the shipment were sent from Port Jefferson to Long Island City earlier in the day and the boxcars were empty for the eastbound run?”
“Then all the doors could be left open,” Cheyenne agreed, “and it wouldn’t matter so much which car we land on. Would give us room to move around inside, too.”
Mr. Finch’s mouth was full, but he nodded. “I’ll see what can be arranged,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Of course, this is all partly contingent upon Det. Carter giving us advance notice of when she plans to move against Quinn.”
Reese tilted his head in acknowledgement and washed down his bite of doughnut with a drink of coffee. “I don’t think it’ll be long-a week, maybe, two at the outside. Losing first the baseball and then Terney seems to have rattled HR. Carter just has to find the right button to push.”
“I’ll get as many of the pieces in place now as I possibly can, but I’ll still need at least a day’s notice to redirect the shipment.”
Thus began an intensive strategy session in which every possible alternative was considered, every conceivable weakness unpicked and accounted for, every assumption challenged, and every way of not involving Root discussed. Cheyenne thought several times that the whole thing would be much simpler if they weren’t in New York City, but he kept that opinion to himself. The plain truth was that the plan would work reliably only if whoever Quinn had at the judge’s house and at the Real Time Crime Center couldn’t get word to the rest of HR and get helicopters airborne before the team reached the boat, and the only way to ensure that without threatening innocent lives who might need the honest lawmen and first responders in town… was to have Root unleash the Machine.
At Mr. Finch’s defeated sigh, Reese said, “Like we said last night, Finch. Every other option is worse.”
“I know, I know. I just… never wanted the Machine to be used this way.” Mr. Finch looked at his watch. “I need to take Root her lunch anyway. If you gentlemen would be so kind….”
“’Course,” said Cheyenne.
Assembling Root’s tray took only a few minutes, and the three men trooped down to her floor in grim silence. Root was reading when they arrived and looked up in surprise.
“Wow,” she said. “An armed escort. Are you sure that’s just food on that tray, Harold?”
Mr. Finch was not amused. At a look from him, Reese unlocked the cage door and stood aside to let Mr. Finch pass.
Root’s expression shifted to worry as Mr. Finch set the tray on the table. “Harold? What’s wrong? Is… this about what the Machine told you about Joss Carter?”
“Yes,” Mr. Finch admitted softly and met her eyes. “The danger still is not imminent, and we have a plan to deal with the threat, but… we will require your assistance.”
Root laid her book aside. “Yes. Yes, I’ll help. Just let me go.”
“I’m afraid it will be no more than a temporary release. You will not be permitted to leave this floor, and I will remain with you at all times to monitor your activities.”
She huffed. “Really?! Why ask me to participate if you still don’t trust me?!”
“If there were any alternative to your involvement, Miss Groves, rest assured that I would have found it. Your willingness to inflict harm on others, like Miss Shaw, makes you as dangerous as ever. But if we are to save Det. Carter, we will need your… unique abilities.”
“I thought Cheyenne was-” Root broke off suddenly and looked toward the door of the cage, and Cheyenne wondered what she was hearing. Whatever it was, she listened for a moment and then sighed heavily. “Well. I suppose it’s better than nothing. A chance to stretch my legs a little more, maybe pick out a few of my own books….”
“But not escape,” Reese cautioned.
Root looked at him. “No. She wants me to stay here. Whatever her plan is to deal with Samaritan, I need to be here for the next step.” Then she looked away, frowning slightly as she listened again. “What a strange thing free will is,” she murmured. “She says she hadn’t even considered that escape route in her initial calculations, and even with all the variables she can control for in her simulations, she’s no more certain of the outcome than you are… but that may be the very thing that saves you.”
“Simulation ain’t prophecy,” Cheyenne noted.
“Even the very wise cannot see all ends,” Reese agreed.
“I know,” said Root, then smiled at them flirtatiously. “That’s why she likes you.”
Cheyenne had no earthly clue how to take that.
“Well,” said Mr. Finch and came back to the door. “We’ll let you get on with your lunch.”
As he left the cage, however, Root drifted toward the door herself, though she stayed inside. “She does like you, Cheyenne,” she insisted. “I mean, obviously she loves Harold, and I’ve known all along that she likes John. But even when I was in Stoneridge, she used to tell me about you, this… man who doesn’t exist. You baffle her sometimes, but she likes you, and she wants to help.”
Cheyenne slammed the door of the cage shut in her face.
That didn’t deter her. “We’re not that different, you and I.”
“I’m nothin’ like you,” Cheyenne snapped and closed the padlock.
“Aside from the technological issues-”
“I’ve got my vices, but they don’t include murder an’ blackmail.”
That shut her up for the moment, and the three men turned to go.
“You’re needed at home, Cheyenne,” she called after them. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
Cheyenne waited until they were on the stairs to look at Mr. Finch, who anticipated his question. “I think that will be all for today, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in.”
“Anything else you need while we’re out, Finch?” Reese asked.
The simple friendly question seemed to thaw Mr. Finch. The worse-than-usual stiffness went out of his gait, and he smiled gratefully up at Reese. “Thank you, Mr. Reese, but I truly do think we’ve finished our business for the day. But if you do hear anything new from Det. Carter….”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Mr. Finch turned to Cheyenne next. “And thank you, Mr. Bodie.”
“I’ll be interested to hear how that paintin’ comes out,” Cheyenne replied.
Mr. Finch’s smile broadened. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
Upstairs, Cheyenne and Reese collected their jackets and gave farewell scratches to Bear before they left. The drive back to Cheyenne’s apartment was fairly quiet, although when they arrived, Reese reminded Cheyenne to set his clocks back that night. (Cheyenne had never heard of Daylight Savings until that week, and while his friends had assured him that he wasn’t the only one who found the concept odd, it made even less sense to him as someone who’d grown up without clocks altogether and was still used to telling time mostly by the sun and moon.) But when he reached his floor in the apartment building, he discovered that Root had been telling the truth. Elias’ man Anthony was lounging just outside his door. Cheyenne reached into his pocket and dialed his telephone before pulling out his key.
“Mr. Wade,” Anthony called, straightening as Cheyenne approached.
“Anthony,” Cheyenne returned with a nod, deciding not to ask how Elias had learned this address or the alias Cheyenne was using here. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Nah, not too long. Like to talk to you for a minute.”
Cheyenne tilted his head, unlocked the door, and ushered Anthony through it. “What can I do for you?” he asked once they were both inside and the door was closed again.
“My boss wanted me to ask you how you’re doing with that chess problem from the other day,” Anthony answered.
“Oh. Well, uh… maybe I’d better just show you.” Cheyenne hung up his hat. “Mind if I get my chess set out?”
Anthony shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Making sure Anthony could see exactly what he was doing, Cheyenne retrieved his chess set from the drawer where he kept it, laid the board out on the coffee table, and began setting out the pieces. Before he got too far, however, he stopped and got out his poker chips as well. Anthony’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t ask what Cheyenne was doing or why; clearly he remembered the part of the conversation in which Elias had suggested they needed some way to indicate more players. So Cheyenne did his best to indicate the current state of affairs with the expanded color options-the Terney bishop off the board on a red chip, for example, the Laskey pawn on white’s back rank on a blue chip, and so on. He made sure to put only as many white pieces on the board as there were members of Mr. Finch’s team, but he piled the black poker chips behind the black king and the red and green chips to either side of the board. As an afterthought, he put one green chip, representing Elias, on white’s back rank behind the rook that stood for Miss Carter.
Then he looked up at Anthony. “Show him that and tell him I know the gambit but not every move. Let me know what he says.”
Anthony nodded once, took out his pocket telephone, and snapped a photo of the board. Then he fiddled with the screen, and a moment later, there was an answering chime. “Checkmate in ten moves,” he read. “Key fork at move nine, possibly set up with move eight. Will send a hint to your rook. My best to Harold and John.”
Cheyenne nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, and thank him for me.”
“Will do. You have a good afternoon.” And Anthony left before Cheyenne could even get up to let him out.
Cheyenne sighed and pulled his telephone out of his pocket. “Did you get all that?” he asked into it.
“Ten days,” Mr. Finch replied. “And something key happening on the ninth day.”
“Gives us a timetable, anyway.”
“So it does… but I do wonder just what Elias knows-and how soon Det. Carter plans to tell us.”
“So,” John began when he called Carter the next morning. “Got any plans for Veterans Day yet?”
Carter chuckled wryly. “Busted, huh?”
“What’d Elias have to say?”
“John-”
“Joss, if you’re gonna start a war-”
She huffed. “All right. The Russians have a big shipment of drugs coming in that night. HR’s supposed to give them protection for it, but he said he’s heard HR’s planning to up their price to make up for losing the baseball. If Cheyenne’s right about Yogorov’s vice bein’ pride where Quinn’s is greed….”
“Especially if Terney’s been telling tall tales about Simmons….”
“Odds are, Yogorov’s gonna tell Simmons what he can do with his higher prices and walk away from the whole deal.”
He nodded. “Is that enough? Or are you going to start that war?”
She sighed. “You once asked me to trust you to do what needed to be done.”
He sighed in turn. He hadn’t been thinking straight that night, when she’d come back from New Rochelle-finding out all about Jessica, apparently, and about who he’d been Before-to catch him with wife-beating Marshal Brad Jennings in his trunk, headed to Mexico. When he’d finally calmed down after delivering Jennings, still breathing, to the Federales with enough drugs to put him away for a very long time, John had realized why Finch had tried to keep him out of that case. But he had kept his promise to Carter by not killing Jennings, just like he hadn’t killed Peter Arndt after finding out what Arndt had done to Jessica. And he knew that was what she was asking him to trust her with now: the ability to remember where the lines were and not cross them, no matter how reckless her actions were.
“I don’t like it,” he said aloud. “But it would sell Yogorov on the idea that HR is the enemy, and it would sell Quinn on the idea that you’re flying solo.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Just… promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“I will, if you promise not to tell Cheyenne until it’s too late for him to stop me.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “If anyone gets to ruin your fun on this case, it’s me.”
Her answering laugh warmed him to the core. He’d heard it all too seldom since her relationship with Beecher had soured that spring.
“So we’ll plan to take Quinn on the 12th,” he concluded.
“Right,” she agreed.
“Will I see you again before then?”
“Better not. When I tell Quinn I’m closin’ the book on Cal’s murder, I’m pretty sure he’ll start havin’ me tailed.”
“All right,” he said, not bothering to keep the worry and disappointment out of his voice.
“It’s nine days, John.”
“A lot can happen in nine days, Joss.”
There was a pause before she said gently, “I know.”
There was so much to be said-so much Bodie would have urged John to say-but he didn’t have the words to say it here and now. All that came out was, “I’ll see you at Monahan’s.”
“See you then,” she said and hung up.
He sat staring at his darkened phone for a long time afterward, wondering why it was so hard for him to say three short words. Then he finally pulled himself together and started making phone calls to arrange a way for himself and Bodie to practice getting Quinn on and off the train.
“We’ve timed it eight times,” a frustrated Cheyenne reported at a reduced strategy meeting with Mr. Finch, Reese, and Fusco Friday evening. “There’s no way we can get Quinn and ourselves off the roof and into the boxcar ’fore we have to jump out at the used car lot. If it were just the three of us, we could make it, but Quinn’s liable to put up a fight, an’ I can’t see any way to cut the time.”
“You won’t have to,” Mr. Finch replied. “In arranging the train, I discovered that one of our former numbers now drives freight trains for the Long Island Railroad. It was a simple matter to have him assigned to our shipment. He’ll stop the train in the park here”-he pointed to a spot on the track, out of sight of the main road but near a walking trail and considerably closer to Monahan’s house than the bridges at the far southern end of the park. “Once you reach the train, you should be able to board in less than thirty seconds, which shouldn’t raise any questions at Jamaica Station. The trick, of course, will be in getting the train to the right spot at exactly the right moment.”
“And gettin’ yourselves there as well,” Fusco chimed in. “I drove down there yesterday. There’s only one footpath you can use to get across Jackie Robinson, and that’s here.” He pointed out the path in question on the map; it led almost directly to the point where they were supposed to meet the train. “Anywhere else you’d try to cross, there’s a six-foot fence on both sides of the road.” Then he pulled his finger northward from the park. “But if you try to cross Union Turnpike there, you’ll be runnin’ across five lanes of traffic and two medians with no stoplight and no cover.”
“What’s the traffic like that late at night?” Reese asked.
Fusco shrugged. “Eh, pretty dead, if I’m honest. Not that it’s all that busy durin’ daylight hours, except rush hour. You could probably make it-if it’s not wall-to-wall HR cruisers before you even get there.”
“That’s what we’re counting on Root to ensure.” Reese studied the map. “Looks like our best bet is to drive down here to Metropolitan, ditch the car at a bus stop, and go the rest of the way on foot. That should get us into the park before they have time to get organized.”
Cheyenne rubbed the back of his neck. “The one thing we can’t plan for is people, bystanders. Root can handle cameras, but she can’t affect human eyes.”
Reese shook his head. “That would be a problem anywhere in New York. The other judges on Zoe’s list all live in areas that are just as built up. What Root can do is… well, cut the telegraph lines, effectively, make it so any messages have to be sent by runner. Most New Yorkers who’ve only witnessed something odd and want to call the cops might be willing to try a second time if the first phone call gets cut off, but they won’t usually try a third.”
Fusco grimaced. “Y’know, this whole thing would be a lot easier if Carter just went to that judge whose kid you guys rescued a couple years ago… what’s his name, Gates?”
“Unfortunately, Judge Gates was appointed to a position on the State Court of Appeals this spring,” said Mr. Finch. “However, with Det. Carter’s permission, I have sent him a copy of the key to her safe deposit box and a request that he not begin swearing out warrants until after we begin our operation here.”
“Besides, Gates was clean,” Reese added. “Even if he were willing to help us trap Quinn, there’s a good chance Quinn wouldn’t buy it.”
“I hate this town,” Cheyenne muttered and didn’t realize he’d finally said it out loud until the other men gave him sympathetic looks and Reese put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’ll be a lot cleaner by this time Wednesday,” said Reese.
That wasn’t exactly what Cheyenne had meant, but he took the attempted comfort in the spirit in which it was given and returned a grim smile.
Cheyenne spent Monday trying to rest and distract himself by learning more about Armistice Day and World War I. Whatever the key event of the day was supposed to be, no one had asked for his help with it, so he could only assume it was something Miss Carter could handle herself. Worrying about it wouldn’t help-not that he was able to stop worrying entirely, but he did try, at least until he finally gave up on All Quiet on the Western Front and spent a good two hours in prayer.
Arriving at the library the next day with Reese and discovering that Mr. Finch had gotten thirty-eight numbers that morning, all of them members of HR, caught Cheyenne somewhat off-guard. Learning that the numbers had been generated after a Russian drug shipment had been stolen and that the person who’d laid the ambush to frame HR was Miss Carter was even more worrisome. But worst was discovering that Elias had given Miss Carter the hint about the shipment after Anthony’s visit-which Reese had known and Mr. Finch and Sam had suspected.
“Did everyone know about this besides me?!” Cheyenne finally exploded.
“Fusco didn’t,” Sam noted with a shrug.
“She knew you’d try to stop her,” Reese added.
Cheyenne rounded on him. “So why didn’t you?”
Reese didn’t flinch. “Because she needs to sell the idea that she’s gone rogue and has no backup. And she asked me to trust her.”
“Not everything she’s done the past few days has been this reckless,” Mr. Finch chimed in. “She was able to bluejack Quinn’s phone Sunday morning, which has allowed me to record some rather important pieces of evidence. I’m sure she’ll still try to goad Quinn into confessing that he ordered Beecher’s murder, but that will be only the final nail in his proverbial coffin.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “How could you let her-”
“Bodie,” Reese interrupted. “She’s a warrior woman.”
Cheyenne looked away. He’d known that about her from the start, but he didn’t see it as a reason to let her do something so foolish.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Sam insisted.
“And it’s not like she has gone full rogue,” Reese continued. “She hasn’t destroyed her phone; she hasn’t changed the plan. Elias called these moves ten days ago, and if he’s right, we will get Quinn tonight.”
Cheyenne looked back at Reese, intending to ask why he wasn’t more worried about Miss Carter’s safety in the meantime. But something in Reese’s eyes answered the question before Cheyenne could voice it: Reese was deeply worried, but because Miss Carter had asked for his trust, he was willing to defend her choice.
“I still don’t like it,” Cheyenne grumbled.
“Neither do we,” Reese returned, which was probably as close as he’d get to admitting how terrified he was for her. “All we can do is be there tonight.”
Cheyenne sighed heavily. “All right.”
“That reminds me,” said Mr. Finch and hobbled off into the stacks for a moment, then returned carrying a hat box and a garment bag, which he handed to Cheyenne. “I thought perhaps you might be more comfortable wearing this suit tonight than your regular one.”
Puzzled, Cheyenne opened the garment bag to reveal an outfit that almost exactly matched the one his friend Robbie James had given him when she’d strong-armed him into managing her casino for a short time. The black wool suit must have been made from a period pattern; the lines were much closer to what he was used to wearing back home than to modern suits, and the coat wouldn’t be in the way of his guns. There was also a vest made of silver silk brocade and a white shirt with a black string tie. It still looked to him like something to be buried in, but if it did herald trouble, at least he’d go out looking like himself. The hat box contained a matching black hat-but the band was made of beads woven in patterns he recognized from childhood.
“I commissioned that from a Northern Cheyenne artist,” Mr. Finch stated as Cheyenne turned the hat to look at the protective symbols and lines of coup count that ringed the band. “It’s more colorful than I’d anticipated, but she said traditional beading is hardly ever done with a black-and-white palette.”
Cheyenne nodded, still examining the design. But then he stopped and ran his finger over one spot that wasn’t traditional. At each end of the band, mostly hidden by the horsehair tie, the artist had placed a set of fox tracks… in grey beads.
“I hope it’s acceptable,” Mr. Finch continued, sounding worried.
Cheyenne finally looked back at him and smiled. “It’s good medicine. Thank you, Mr. Finch.”
He could only hope, as he put the hat back in the box, that it would be enough to protect Reese and Miss Carter as well.
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