Freefall Page 7

  Bailey noticed the words register with Hector and Joe, and saw them both stiffen. Arthur and Crispin got to their feet and trudged from the room in a huff.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you,” Bailey told the boys as gently as possible. “I know this is a really difficult time. Your father sent me.”

  “Is he OK?” Marcella asked.

  Bailey nodded. “As well as anyone could be.” He turned his attention back to Hector and Joseph, who watched him silently. “He told me what happened.”

  The boys looked at Bailey with growing indignation. He could imagine what was going through their minds. Connor had sworn them to secrecy and here was this stranger trying to get them to betray the only parent they had left.

  “I wish I could . . .” Bailey began, but he was cut off by a violent coughing fit. “Could you get me a glass of water?” he asked Marcella when he was able.

  “Of course,” she replied, hurrying from the room.

  Once she was gone, Bailey crouched beside the boys.

  “I know about the cut on your arm, Hector,” he told them. “I know you did it on one of three metal spikes arranged on your mother’s desk. And your father told me about the note he gave you, Joseph. He wants me to take a look at it.”

  The brothers exchanged uncertain looks.

  “How would I know about all this if your father hadn’t told me?” Bailey challenged them. “He sent me to help.”

  Hector nodded at his younger brother. “Give it to him,” he said flatly.

  Joseph leaned around the side of the couch and grabbed a cloth backpack that was concealed under a veneer coffee table. He handed the bag to Bailey, who unzipped the main compartment and reached inside. Bailey recoiled immediately, and when he pulled his arm out, he saw a deep gash along the palm of his hand.

  “Here you go,” Marcella said as she entered, carrying a glass of water. “Oh my goodness, what happened?” she cried when she saw the blood running down Bailey’s wrist.

  “I nicked myself,” he replied. “Could you get me a cloth or something?”

  Marcella hurried out of the room, and Bailey wiped his hand on his suit trousers before carefully reaching into the backpack. He gingerly removed three long, curved pieces of metal that looked like stakes that might be used to dispatch a vampire and three dense metal balls about four inches in diameter. Bailey placed them on the thick carpet, but Hector shook his head.

  “They weren’t like that,” the boy said, leaning forward and carefully rearranging the metal artifacts to form a pattern. The three balls lay in a row, with the pointed ends of the metal stakes almost touching them, their thick ends fanning out to form the edges and center of a trapezoid. Bailey recognized this wasn’t a random pattern but some kind of symbol, and he hurriedly produced his phone and took a picture.

  “Thanks,” he said, rooting around the backpack until he found what he was looking for: a white envelope addressed to “My Darling Connor.”

  He carefully replaced the metal objects in the backpack and shoved the envelope in his jacket pocket.

  “You can’t take—” Hector began, but cut himself off as Marcella entered with a first-aid kit.

  “How did you do that?” she asked Bailey, handing him an antiseptic wipe.

  “Thanks,” he acknowledged, cleaning the wound. “I caught it on my pen.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced an innocuous-looking ballpoint.

  Marcella eyed the pen, Bailey, and the boys with suspicion, but said nothing.

  “Well, I think I’m done here,” Bailey announced, getting to his feet. “Hector and Joseph have been most helpful. I’m very sorry to have troubled you.”

  Hector brimmed with indignation, but remained silent. Joseph looked as though he couldn’t care what the world might throw at him—he’d endured its worst.

  “I’ll make sure your father knows how good you’ve been,” Bailey assured them. “Thank you so much, Ms. Greene.”

  “It’s Ambrose, actually. I’m married,” Marcella explained.

  “Thank you so much,” Bailey repeated. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He backed out of the room, leaving the grieving boys to face their bemused aunt’s futile questions, then hurried through the kitchen. He had reached the front door when a voice called out behind him.

  “Detective!” Bailey turned to see Marcella approaching. “What happened in there?”

  “The boys were very helpful,” he replied. “I got what I needed,” he added as he opened the door. “I won’t trouble you anymore.”

  Marcella shook her head in puzzled disapproval as he shut the door. He walked to his car, aware that she’d moved to one of the large picture windows, where she was eyeing him with suspicion. Ignoring the blood that was still flowing from his wounded palm, he started the engine and pulled away.

  Bailey drove a couple of blocks and stopped beside the park. Grabbing some tissues from the glove compartment, he wiped his hand before reaching into his pocket for the envelope, then opened it and pulled out the single sheet of paper that was folded within. He unfurled the letter and saw a handwritten message above a large block of typed numbers. The message read:

  My dearest darling Con,

  Do you remember the conversation we had on our wedding night? How we agreed to go on a journey together, come what may? I’m afraid my journey has ended. Words cannot express my sorrow, but if you’re reading this, I’ve had to take the next stage of the journey alone. Know that this was not my choice. Others did this to me. One day you’ll understand that it was the only way. Until then, I need you to ask the police to involve Detective Inspector Patrick Bailey. What’s written below is for him. It hurts me to keep secrets from you of all people, but I know that if I didn’t, you might put yourself in harm’s way. Truth can be more dangerous than any weapon, and whatever happens, I want to leave knowing that you and the boys will always be safe.

  My infinite love

  Vee

  Detective Inspector Bailey, I followed your work on the Pendulum case. Unless my instincts fail me, you’re a good man. What follows is meant only for you. Don’t make my death meaningless, and be very careful.

  There followed ten lines of seemingly random numbers with no breaks. Bailey considered the message, which was unlike any suicide note he’d ever seen. He wasn’t sure it even was a suicide note. There was no claim of responsibility, and it was so balanced, so rational, as though death was just research for another article. But if it wasn’t a suicide note, it was clearly written by a woman who knew death was coming for her. Bailey wondered at the steel of a woman who could write such a compassionate note in the face of her own demise, and felt ashamed of his own paranoid fears. He studied the block of numbers beneath the handwritten message but could make no sense of the rows of digits. Carefully folding the letter, he replaced it in the envelope and put it on the passenger seat. Whether Sylvia Greene died by her own hand or that of another wasn’t what was important. The real question is why she died, Bailey decided as he followed Regent’s Park Road back toward the bustling city. He suspected that the numbers held the answer.

  10

  The smell of fresh blood was overpowering. Ash came round to find herself seated in the center of a large room, her arms tied over the back of the chair. A jolt of pain shot down her neck into her spine as she lifted her head and looked around. Ahead of her, the man in the Pendulum suit sat at a workbench in front of a bank of computers. He was lost in concentration and didn’t notice Ash stir. Nervous excitement mingled with pain as she considered the possibility that this might have been the second man she saw at the Twin Lakes facility, the man Harrell refused to believe existed.

  The excitement died the instant she saw Price. He was lying on the bare concrete floor, his face a mashed mess, his arms and legs so bloody that they looked as though they’d been flayed. Dark liquid pooled around him, and Ash realized he was the source of the bloody stench. She couldn’t bear to look at him, and as she turned her head away, she caugh
t sight of Reeves, bound to a chair on her left. His head hung limp and his eyes were closed; he was still out. His arms were stretched over the back of the chair, his wrists bound by a heavy duty cable tie. The most worrying aspect was the black box fixed to his neck. Ash recognized it immediately and saw the dark wire running around Reeves’s throat. Ignoring the pulsing pain, she moved her head to confirm that she too was wearing a guillotine. She could feel the wire pressing against her neck. She heard a groan and turned to see Miller trussed up on a chair to her right, his wrists cable-tied behind his back, his neck adorned with one of the horrific wire chokers.

  “You’re awake.” The man in the Pendulum mask was drawn by Miller’s moan.

  “Who are you?” Ash demanded.

  “Great men never die,” the menacing figure growled. “Their legacy echoes throughout history.”

  The man’s voice was unfamiliar, but his mannerisms almost convinced her that Pendulum had returned to wreak terrible revenge.

  “Pendulum tried to change the world,” the man continued, drawing near. “To make it a better place. My work will honor him.”

  Ash knew then that the man in the mask wasn’t the second person she’d seen at Twin Lakes. There was too much reverence in his voice, too much worship in his words. This man had never met his twisted hero.

  “You know how these work,” the masked man observed, holding up one of the guillotines. “It’s your time,” he added, raising his other hand to reveal a remote.

  He flipped the solitary switch and Ash suddenly felt the wire tighten around her neck, pressing deep into her flesh. Heat began to radiate off the taut metal and the box at the back of her neck started to shudder as powerful gears hauled the wire inward. Ash knew she didn’t have long, and prayed that the masked man had bound her tightly. She propelled her arms as high as they would go, forcing them to rise until they were almost popping out of their sockets, and then she slammed them hard against the chair back. The cable tie held, and the masked man, realizing what Ash was trying to do, ran to the workbench and reached for a length of metal pipe as she repeated the motion. She slammed her arms against the chair with all her strength and the cable ties snapped.

  Ash rolled clear of the chair as the masked man swung for her. She felt the pipe slice the air inches above her head, and quickly turned, jabbing her assailant in the left kidney, between the front and rear plates of body armor. He lashed out with the pipe, but Ash dodged it and picked up the chair, thrusting its back into the man’s chin. The blow dazed him and he dropped the pipe, which Ash snatched before it had stopped clattering. He tried to step away, but Ash was as relentless as the scorching wire slicing its way into her neck. Pain urged her on. The masked man tried to lash out, but Ash ducked the punch and came up with the pipe, driving it into his face, sending him sprawling. Breathing was getting difficult, and she could feel the wire gathering momentum and knew that it would not be long before it severed her windpipe. She leapt on the prone man and cracked him over the head with the pipe, knocking him out.

  She was starting to feel faint as the wire cut deeper, and she didn’t want to think about the fact that blood had started running down her neck.

  Don’t be afraid, baby.

  Her mother’s final words rose unbidden, but she ignored the morbid memory and staggered to the workbench, the edges of her vision growing black as she tried to choke down tiny breaths of air. Alive with panic, Ash scoured the workbench but could not see the remote. Frantic, she turned toward her assailant and saw it still in his hand. She tried to run, but the wire forced her to her knees. She pulled herself across the rough, cold floor, willing herself to stay conscious. Reaching for the remote with trembling fingers, she flicked the switch. The pressure ceased but it didn’t ease, and Ash knew that she’d pass out if she didn’t get the guillotine off soon. She patted the familiar body armor, searching for a weapon, but found none. Forcing herself to her feet, she surveyed the room. Apart from the workbench which was covered by monitors, there were three machining benches laid around the edges of the room and a row of lockers. Ash staggered over to the lockers and opened them in sequence until she found one that contained their weapons. She grabbed her Glock and held it to her neck, then pushed it back a couple of inches.

  She was about to take the shot when she suddenly felt searing pain and the wire resumed its terrifying journey inward. Ash turned to see her attacker awake, holding the remote. She repositioned the pistol and took the shot. Her neck burned with scorching agony, but the wire flew free of her neck and she could breathe again. She longed to crumble to the ground, but she knew her assailant was almost upon her and turned.

  “Stop!” she croaked, waving the gun, but he ignored the command, so she opened fire, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him off his feet.

  He rolled around on his back, clutching his chest, and she knew that even though the body armor had stopped the round, at such close range the bullet would have probably cracked a rib or two. She walked over to him and stamped on his solar plexus, driving her heel down as hard as she could. He cried in pain, and, satisfied he was incapacitated, she leaned down to remove his mask and revealed the face of Charles Haig—Babylon.

  Ash staggered back, relieved to be alive, but certain that she needed urgent medical attention. She had to free the others in case she blacked out, but, as she made her way over to Miller, something stopped her cold. With her senses finally able to focus on more than pure survival, she noticed that the walls were covered with more Pendulum memorabilia—photographs, clippings, and internet postings—but one picture particularly unnerved her. Pinned above the computer workbench was a photograph of John Wallace, taken on a long lens through the windows of a converted church, which Ash guessed was his London apartment. The picture had been taken before Pendulum had tried to kill him. She lurched over to the workbench to take a closer look, then heard movement behind her. Haig was dragging himself toward the lockers.

  “Freeze!” Ash gasped, but the word wouldn’t travel, so she staggered over to the injured man and knocked him across the back of the head with the butt of her pistol. He fell forward, cracking his nose on the concrete beneath, stunning him.

  Ash hurried to the nearest machining bench, where she found a putty knife which she used to cut Miller and Reeves loose. She was trying to rouse Miller when she noticed Haig had pulled himself to his knees, his hands inside the locker that contained their guns.

  “Get away from there,” Ash ordered, her voice wet with blood.

  Haig froze, but didn’t acknowledge her as she approached.

  “Show me your hands,” she commanded, trying to peer into the darkness of the locker to see what Haig was holding.

  The dazed man turned to look at Ash, his cold eyes flecked with blood from a broken nose that had erupted across his face. He was grinning like a fool who’d heard his first joke.

  “Where did you get this picture?” she asked, holding up the image of John Wallace. “Where did you get that armor?”

  “I’m a true believer,” Haig replied. “I’ve been somewhere you can only dream of.”

  The shot came without warning, the muzzle flash flaring from inside the locker as Haig put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His head snapped back as a bullet tore through his chin and erupted out of the back of his skull. He died instantly, and, as his body fell limp, Ash collapsed to the ground, tears of relief welling in her eyes.

  11

  Wallace woke to the sweet smell of millet porridge. Kurik hunched over a small pot that hung above a fire near the cave mouth. He smiled at Wallace when he caught the Englishman’s eye. Vosuruk was nowhere to be seen, but his horse was still tied to a stone near the back wall. When Wallace sat up, he realized that his comfortable cot was nothing of the sort. He’d been sleeping between two rough blankets on a bed of damp stone, and was now stiff and sore. His head felt as though it was at the center of a huge ball of elastic bands and was tight with the intense, grimy pressure of an opiate c
omedown. But Wallace didn’t care. At that moment he felt like he’d endure a lifetime sleeping in a dank cave if it meant he could end each day with Connie in his arms. He sighed sadly, but quickly rallied when he noticed Kurik looking at him.

  “I slept too long,” he told the boy, getting to his feet. He pressed his palms together and placed his hands beside his head, closing his eyes to mimic sleep.

  “Yes, yes, big,” Kurik smiled. He snorted a few snores and laughed as Wallace walked off his aches. “Tchina?” he added, pointing at the contents of the pot.

  Wallace approached the fire, his nostrils filling with the rich aroma of honeyed millet and goat’s milk, his stomach growling emptiness. “Please,” he said.

  Kurik reached into his pack and produced a pockmarked stainless steel canteen. He handed it to Wallace, who turned it over to see Cyrillic writing on the base—a souvenir of the Soviet invasion.

  “Ruskie,” Kurik nodded as he offered a ladle of porridge, which Wallace gratefully accepted.

  He sat on a large rock near the fire and started to eat the thick mixture with his hand. It was stove-hot and burned his fingers and mouth, but he was so hungover and hungry that he didn’t care.

  “Good,” he told Kurik, who smiled and gave a thumbs up.

  After a few mouthfuls, with the worst of his hunger sated, Wallace took a break and asked, “Where’s Vosuruk?”

  Kurik considered the question, and Wallace thought he hadn’t understood, so he added, “Father, t’ot.”

  Kurik nodded impatiently, suggesting that he’d understood the initial question but was struggling to think of a way to answer. He pointed at his eyes, “Vosuruk look,” he replied, and then lowered his fingers to the ground and walked them up a rock. “Look way.”

  “Teach him English and I will give you a hundred goats,” Vosuruk said in a voice that boomed around the cave.

  Wallace turned to see the Kom magistrate leaning a hand against the cave entrance as he rested, his forehead glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration.