Bellevue. I'm gonna miss this place.
I'd brought Kate some clothes that she'd asked for, plus makeup and whatever so she'd look good when they wheeled her into an ambulette the next day, and good when she walked through the lobby of our building.
Kate, however, was exhibiting the classic symptoms of short-timer anxiety-like, something is going to go wrong, I'm not really getting out of here, and so forth.
I reminded her, "You have a gun. We'll get you out."
She asked me, "Anything new?"
Well, yes, our apartment building has been under round-the-clock surveillance by terrorists for maybe three weeks. But that might send her into a tailspin, so I replied, "Nope."
She asked me, "Have you spoken to Tom or Vince?"
"Nope."
She moved on to family matters. "My parents were going to call you today."
"They did. Didn't I mention that? Your father wants to know why I didn't shoot the terrorist who attacked you."
She seemed a little embarrassed and said, "I explained that to him."
"I'll explain it again." Or, with luck, I'll cut off the terrorist's head before our flight and bring it to him in my overnight bag. "Here he is, Mr. Mayfield. He won't be cutting any more throats. This calls for a drink."
Kate said, "Your mother told me she was going to call you."
"She did."
"What did she say?"
"Eat more fish."
"She asked me why I'm not pregnant yet."
"Eat more fish."
Kate and I watched some TV-a History Channel documentary about the earth being wiped out by a meteorite, which, if it happened tonight, would put the Minnesota trip on hold for a while. God?
Visiting hours ended at 9 P.M., and Kate and I kissed good-bye, and she said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Get here an hour early and get me checked out." She added, "This is the last time we have to say good-bye here."
"Get some recipes before you go."
Officer Mindy Jacobs was on duty outside Kate's door, and I said to her, "Kate's being discharged tomorrow."
"That's good news."
"Right. So if you're superstitious-"
"I hear you." She assured me, "If I don't recognize a nurse, a doctor, or an orderly, I get someone I know to ID them before they get past me."
"Good."
I wished her a nice quiet evening and left the ward.
My FBI driver was still Preston Tyler, who was putting in a long day. He informed me that there would be no driver on duty until morning, but he assured me, "Your surveillance and protective detail is still in place."
"Terrific."
There were no messages on my home phone, no e-mail, and my cell phone was silent. Maybe everyone was dead from anthrax. Nerve gas?
I thought about calling Boris again, but then I thought about just sneaking out of here and making another unannounced visit to Svetlana. Maybe I'd spend the night on Boris's couch and see if Khalil turned up. But maybe Khalil would come for me here, and I didn't want to miss him.
I decided to wait a half hour, and if nothing happened here, then I'd go see Boris.
At 10:15, as I was watching another History Channel documentary about possible doomsday scenarios-earthquakes, supervol-canoes, meteors again, gamma-ray bursts, and an avalanche of fourth-class junk mail that could bury entire cities-my cell phone vibrated.
It was a text from Paresi that said: Urgent and confidential. Meet at WTC site, PA trailer. ASAP.
I stared at the text. Was this the break I'd been waiting for?
I wasn't sure what Paresi meant by confidential, and he wasn't going to say in his text, "This is cop-to-cop," but that was the implication. Maybe he was finally getting his head on straight.
I texted him: 20 minutes.
I called down to the parking garage and was happy to get Gomp on the phone. I said, "Gomp, this is Tom Walsh."
"Hey, Tom, how ya doin'?"
"Swell. I need a ride down to Sixty-eighth and Lex again."
"Sure thing."
"I need you to meet me at the freight elevator."
"Freight elevator?"
"Right. Two minutes. And mum's the word." I added, "Fifty bucks."
"Sure thing."
I hung up and strapped on my gun belt and hip holster. On the belt, in a sheath, was Uncle Ernie's K-bar knife that I'd taken with me on all my walks in the park. I put on a blue windbreaker and left my apartment.
As I was speed walking toward the freight elevator, I realized my vest was packed in my luggage. I don't normally wear a vest, so it's not second nature, like my gun, or my shield, or leaving the toilet seat up. I hesitated and looked at my watch. The hell with it. I got in the freight elevator, hit the garage button, and down I went.
The elevator doors opened, and there was Gomp sitting in a nice BMW SUV. I was glad he hadn't stolen my green Jeep.
I came around the car and said to him, "I need help with something in the elevator."
"Sure thing."
He got out of the BMW and moved toward the freight elevator as I jumped in the driver's seat.
Gomp shouted, "Hey! Tom! Where you-?"
I hit the accelerator, drove up the ramp, and turned right onto 72nd Street. I caught the green light at Third Avenue and continued on.
I looked in the rearview mirror. There wasn't much traffic at this hour on a drizzly Sunday night, and I didn't see any headlights trying to keep up with me. That was easy.
Subways are faster than cars in Manhattan, but the closest station to the World Trade Center has been damaged and closed since 9/11, and the other stations in the area were a five- or ten-minute walk to Liberty Street where I had to meet Paresi at the Port Authority trailer. Also, subway service to that devastated part of the city was subject to changes, meaning delays. So I'd drive. It was a nice car.
Crosstown traffic wasn't too bad on this Sunday night, and I drove through Central Park at the 65th Street Transverse Road, then got over to the West Side Highway and headed south along the Hudson River. Traffic was moving and within fifteen minutes I was on West Street driving between the dark, devastated sites of the World Financial Center and World Trade Center.
Pre-9/11, a footbridge spanned West Street at Liberty, and I saw the remnants of the structure and turned left. I parked the BMW near the chain-link gates and got out.
I'd expected to see a few unmarked cars or cruisers here, but the only vehicle around was the Port Authority cruiser parked near the fence.
I walked quickly to the gates and saw that the heavy chain and lock were in place, but there was a lot of slack in the chain and I squeezed through and walked quickly to the trailer.
I knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so I took my creds out, opened the door, and called inside, "Federal agent! Hello? Coming in."
I stepped up into the trailer and saw that the front area-an office with two desks, a radio, and maps-was empty. An electric coffee maker was on in the galley kitchen, but the TV on the counter was turned off.
There was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and a bunk room where the PA cops could catch a few winks or whatever, and I called out, "Anybody home?" but no one answered.
My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the text message, which was from Paresi: We're down in the pit. Where are you?
I replied: PA trailer. 1 minute.
I left the trailer and started down the long, wide earthen ramp that went into the deep pit.
The excavation site was huge, covering sixteen acres, and it would have been pitch-dark except for some lights strung along the remains of the deep concrete foundation, and a dozen or so stanchion-mounted stadium lights that illuminated some of the desolate acreage.
There were pieces of equipment scattered around-mostly earthmoving equipment and dump trucks, plus a few cranes. I also saw some construction office trailers, and one big tractor-trailer parked near the center of the site.
About halfway down the ramp, I stopped. I looked into the pit, but I didn't see anyone. The stadium lights didn't cover the entire site, and large areas were in darkness or in shadows cast by the equipment.
I texted Paresi: Where?
He replied: Center, big semi.
I looked at the tractor-trailer I'd seen, about two hundred yards away, and I saw someone pass from light to darkness.
I continued down the hard-packed earth ramp.
Okay, so why did Paresi want to meet here? Something to do with the big tractor-trailer? Who else was here? And where were the Port Authority cops? Down in the pit? And what's with the cell phone silence?
The drizzle had stopped, but at the bottom of the ramp the softer earth had turned muddy, and I wished I'd changed out of my loafers. I also noticed deep, fresh tire marks made by what was probably an eighteen-wheeler that had come through not too long ago. Assuming these were made by the big semi in the center of the site, I followed the tread marks.
I was passing in and out of darkness, and the banks of stadium lights to my front were shining in my eyes.
I saw the tractor-trailer-CARLINO MASONRY SUPPLIES-about fifty yards ahead, but I didn't see Paresi or anyone else.
I took another few steps and stopped. I was getting a weird feeling about this. Something in the back of my mind… the stadium lights… the shadows…
I pulled my Glock and stuck it in my belt, then moved more slowly toward the tractor-trailer.
My cell phone buzzed loudly in the quiet pit. I looked at the text from Paresi: I am to your left.
I stopped beside a big dump truck and looked to my left. About ten yards away, I could see something moving in the half-light. As my eyes adjusted, I could see an object swinging from the cable of a crane… and it took me a few seconds to realize it was a person… and then I realized I was looking at the face of Vince Paresi.
I grabbed my gun out of my belt, and as I was dropping to one knee, I heard a high-pitched scream from the top of the dump truck behind me, and a fast-moving shadow flitted across the light, then something slammed into my back with such force that I was driven face-first into the wet ground. The wind was knocked out of me, and I saw my gun lying in the mud a few feet in front of me. I lunged for it, but something hit me in the back of my head, and then a foot kicked the gun away.
I jumped to my feet and realized I was wobbly, and as I caught my breath and tried to get my bearings, I saw someone in dark clothing standing about ten feet from me. I took a deep breath and stared at The Lion.
Asad Khalil had a gun in his hand, but it was at his side. I could cover the distance in about two seconds, but it would take him one second to aim and fire, and he didn't have much aiming to do at this distance.
Finally, he said, "So, we meet again."
He wanted to talk, of course, so I replied, "Fuck you."
He informed me, "That is the second time tonight someone has said that to me. But the last man said it in Russian."
Well, I knew who that was, and since Khalil was standing here, I knew that Boris was not standing anywhere. And Vince… my God… I felt a rage rising inside me, but I knew I had to keep it under control.
He said to me, "I know you are alone, and I want you to know that I, too, am alone." He said, unnecessarily, "It is just us. As you requested, and as it should be."
I nodded.
He nodded in return and said, "I saved you for last, Mr. Corey."
I replied, "I saved you for myself."
He smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. He said, "I didn't feel a bulletproof vest when I knocked you to the ground."
I didn't reply.
"No matter. I am not going to shoot you in the heart." He held up his gun and said to me, "This is the gun of your deceased wife. I am looking forward to shooting off your manhood with this gun."
He had a few more things to say before he did that, and I thought about a few moves I could make, but none of them seemed promising.
Without moving my head, my eyes darted around at what was nearby. My gun was too far away, and there was nothing close by that I could use. I quickly scanned the top of the distant foundation walls. The observation deck was closed, and even if someone was walking by at street level, they couldn't see this far into the dark pit.
Khalil said, "Look at me. There is no one here to help you." He let me know, "They are all dead. The two policemen in their comfortable trailer are dead. And as you can clearly see, your superior officer is close by, but he cannot help you." He held up a cell phone and said, "His final message to you is this-Asad Khalil has won."
Again, I felt the rage and anger taking over-this psychotic piece of shit, this cold-blooded, murdering- "Did it not occur to you, Mr. Corey, that this was not as it seemed?"
I looked at him and I thought about that. Maybe it did occur to me, way deep down inside… so deep that I just left it there because… it didn't matter to me if it was Paresi or Khalil.
He said to me, "I have dreamed about this moment. Have you?"
I nodded.
He looked at me and said, "It was fated that we meet, but often we must help fate." He smiled again and said, "Both of us have helped fate tonight, and it is my fate, Mr. Corey, to cut off your face."
I assumed he brought his own knife for that, and I said to him, "Try it. Put the gun down and try it, asshole."
He ignored my invitation and glanced around. He said to me, "Here we are, where three thousand of your countrymen died."
I reminded him, "There were hundreds of Muslims who died in the Towers."
He ignored that, too, and said, "This, I think, is a good place for you to die as well." He asked me, "Did I choose well?"
I didn't reply, and I wondered if he somehow knew that Kate and I had actually come within minutes of dying here on 9/11. But I didn't die here then, and I wasn't going to die here now.
In fact, he said to me, "But I will not kill you unless you force me to. I will, however, shoot you in the groin, then slice off your face as I promised."
I had no reply to that.
He reached behind his back and produced a long, wide knife. He said, "This is what I will use, and you will be alive to feel it and to see your face being pulled from your skull."
He was into taunting, which was part of the ritual for most pleasure killers. And they get so deep into their fantasies that they forget to be careful.
Khalil, however, was also a trained killer, and he asked me, "Do you have another gun?"
Well, I did, but I loaned it to Kate. I didn't reply.
He looked at me, then said, "I didn't feel one… but…" He stuck his knife back in his belt, and then he surprised me-or maybe not-by also sticking his gun-Kate's gun-in his belt at his right side.
He stood perfectly still, looking right at me. His legs were slightly parted and bent at the knees, and his arms were away from his sides. Did he learn that from Boris? Or too many cowboy movies?
As though he read my mind, he said, "You are a cowboy-no? Is your gun hand faster than mine? Please. Reach for your gun."
Well, if I had one, asshole, the first and last thing you'd see was the flash of the muzzle. It also occurred to me that Khalil would rather not fire a shot that could be heard… or maybe he simply preferred the knife.
He straightened up and said, "You either have no gun, or you are a coward."
Well, I had no gun, but I did have a knife he didn't seem to know about. I said, "I can't hear you. Step closer."
He drew his knife again and moved toward me, saying, "I once flayed a man's flesh from his chest, and I could see his ribs, his lungs, and his beating heart."
As he came closer, I could see his face more clearly, and he looked exactly like the photograph in the wanted poster-deep, dark, narrow-set eyes, separated by a hooked nose that gave him more the appearance of a bird of prey than a lion.
He kept coming closer, brandishing his long knife, a big smile on his face.
I stepped back, and he smiled wider. He was really having fun.
He moved closer, slicing the air with his knife.
I stepped back again, and he closed the gap.
He let me know, "If you turn and run, I will shoot your legs out from under you, then butcher you."
"I'm not running."
"No, but you are stepping backward. Come to me. Fight like a man."
"You have the knife, asshole. Put it down."
He flipped the knife into the air, then caught it by its handle and smiled again.
He was really enjoying this, and to be honest, I was not. I knew this guy could slice me up if I made a move toward him, so I again backed off. It was time to end his fun, so I reminded him, "Your mother was a whore."
He screamed something and charged at me.
I turned, took a running step, pretended to slip in the mud, then drew my knife and spun around on my knees and let him run into the K-bar, which caught him in his groin.
He let out a surprised scream and backpedaled away as I charged in for the kill before he went for his gun.
He had his knife hand over his groin and his other hand was reaching for the Glock as he backpedaled, and he lost his footing in the mud and fell backward.
The only move I had was to dive on him to keep him away from the Glock, and I made a running jump and landed full on his chest as he was starting to raise his legs to catapult me into the air.
I saw his arm coming around, and I felt his knife cutting into the back of my shoulder blade, scraping across the bone.
His arm was rising again for another stab, and I grabbed his wrist. I kept the full weight of my body on him as he struggled to get me off him and get his knife hand free.
My knife hand was free, and his left hand was free, but instead of reaching for his gun, he made the right decision to grab my arm before I got my blade into his face or throat.
He got a tight grip on my wrist, then lifted his head and got his teeth into my cheek and bit down hard on the maxillary nerve, which sent flashes of pain through my head.
He was still holding my wrist, but I managed to get my arm up, and I brought the butt end of the heavy K-bar down on the top of his head.
He released his bite on my cheek, and I twisted my hand to bring the business end of the knife into the top of his skull, but he was incredibly strong and he pulled my arm away and held it.
So we were locked together, neither of us able to use our knives, and this would go on until one of us weakened, or did something unexpected-or desperate.
He was in very good physical shape, and he didn't seem to be tiring as we each tried to break free from the other's grip.
He tried a few times to get his knee in my groin, but he had no leverage, and I kept my full weight on him. Then he tried to get his teeth into my face again, but I kept my head tilted back.
I had no idea where I'd stuck him. Genitals? Thigh? Lower abdomen? But I knew the wound wasn't bleeding enough to weaken him. My own wound felt warm and wet, but I didn't think he'd done too much damage.
We made eye contact and stared at each other. I said, "You're going to die."
He shook his head and said, "You."
His voice was still baritone so I guess I'd missed his nuts.
As we struggled, I realized he wasn't weakening at all, but I was, and he knew that, so he was waiting me out. Time to do something.
I gave him a head butt, but it didn't cause him any more pain than it did me. He retaliated by trying to get his teeth on my face again, which is what I wanted him to do. I clamped my teeth on his big hooked nose, and I bit down as hard as I've ever bitten on anything. Before he screamed, I felt his cartilage cracking under my teeth and I tasted the blood oozing out of his nose and into my mouth.
He was in real pain now, so he barely noticed that I'd released my bite on his nose. I spit blood into his left eye, and when the eyelid closed, I got my teeth on it and ripped at it.
I spit more blood in his eyes and said quietly, "I'm gonna eat your fucking face."
He spit back at me, then managed to get a bite out of my chin.
A man in great pain and great danger has super strength-adrenaline-charged muscle power-and Khalil arched his body up with me on top, which gave him the leverage he needed to go into a rolling motion, trying to reverse our positions and get on top of me. I lost my grip on his knife hand, and he immediately brought his knife down into my back again, slicing into my rib cage.
He would have stabbed me again, but I suddenly relaxed my muscles, and he found himself going through the rest of his twist and roll without resistance, and this put him unexpectedly face-first into the ground with me on his back. His knife hand was free, but he couldn't use it from that position, and he tried to scramble away, but I came down heavy, and he collapsed on his chest and stomach. Both my hands were free now, and I pulled his head back by his long hair and slashed his throat, then pushed his face into the mud. He didn't make a move or a sound, but my instincts said he wasn't finished.
In fact, his arm slid under his body, and I knew he was going for his gun. I got there first and snatched the gun out of his belt, and because you don't want a gun in play this close, I jumped off him and stepped back.
I stood there, breathing hard, keeping my eye on him.
The stadium lights were shining in my eyes, and my stocking feet were buried in the mud. A worse problem was that the wetness was spreading over my back, and it felt warm in the cool night air.
I realized that Khalil's second stab had gone deeper than I thought, and I was losing blood.
My head was getting light, and I felt my knees giving out, then I found myself kneeling on the ground.
Khalil was moving now, and I watched as he rose slowly to his feet.
His back was to me, but I saw him wiping his face with his hands, then he turned around, saw me, and began walking toward me.
His face and clothes were covered with mud, but I could see the blood on his throat and his shirt, and I realized that the blood wasn't gushing the way it should have if I'd hit his jugular or carotid.
He spotted his knife on the ground, picked it up, and kept coming toward me.
Die, you sonofabitch.
I stood too quickly, and I felt light-headed again. I thought I was going to pass out, but I took a few deep breaths and kept still so my heart wouldn't start pumping more blood out of me.
Khalil kept coming, holding his knife in front of him.
When he was less than ten feet from me, he said, "Your face."
Well, I didn't want him to deface me, and as far as I was concerned, the knife fight was over. So I raised Kate's Glock and pointed it at him. My arm was unsteady, and again I thought I was going to black out.
I said, "Drop the knife."
I noticed that the Glock was totally covered with mud, and I wasn't sure it was going to fire, and neither was he. I said, "Drop it, asshole," but I didn't really want him to drop it. I should have had no trouble just pulling the trigger, but… I couldn't do that; I wanted him to earn his bullet.
He took a few more steps, then sunk to his knees.
It was over, but it's not over until it's over-and he was still holding his knife pointed at me.
I would have waited it out, but I was starting to get that old bleeding-to-death feeling that I remembered too well, so I had to put the final nail in this bastard… I aimed at his head and squeezed on the trigger, but then I stopped and looked at him. I lowered the gun and shoved it in my belt.
Again, Khalil stood, and he did the zombie walk with his knife pointing the way toward me.
I took a deep breath, then lunged at him with my knife, parrying his arm away as I brought the K-bar up in an underhand motion. The blade sliced through the bottom of his chin, through his mouth and into his palate, where it stuck. I let go of the knife and stepped back.
His eyes widened, and he tried to speak or scream, but I think the blade must have passed through his tongue, and he just made a few unintelligible sounds as blood ran out of his mouth.
He started choking, then amazingly he took another step toward me, and we made eye contact, not three feet apart.
I looked into his eyes. One eye was filled with blood where I'd ripped his eyelid, but the other was bright and burning, and it stared at me.
The handle of my K-bar knife was stuck up to the hilt under his chin, and he looked like he'd sprouted a strange goatee.
I said to him, "My wife is alive. I am alive. You are dead."
He kept staring at me, then he shook his head.
I saw weird green-and-yellow stuff oozing out of his mouth and nose-maybe mucus from his sinus cavity, or maybe this guy was from outer space.
Asad Khalil was dead, but he wasn't finished dying, and I wasn't feeling so well myself.
So we both stood there, a few feet apart, our eyes fixed on each other, and I had the sense that this was a contest of wills-who was going to drop first?
Well, it wasn't going to be me. I managed to keep standing, even though my head was starting to spin.
Khalil suddenly seemed aware that he had a problem, and his right hand came up and grabbed the handle of the knife stuck under his chin.
Well, nobody but me touches Uncle Ernie's combat knife, so I hauled off and smashed him in the face.
He went down, and I knew he wasn't getting up again, so I let myself fall to my knees.
Then I crawled over to Khalil, turned, and dropped my head and shoulders on his chest to keep my wounds elevated.
I could feel his chest still rising and falling.
I stared up at the sky and felt a light drizzle on my face, which felt good.
I found my cell phone and called 911. I said to the dispatcher, "Ten-thirteen…" Officer in trouble. I IDed myself and gave her my shield number, then using cop lingo to make this sound real, I said, "I need a bus, forthwith," an ambulance-now. I gave her the location and had to repeat it, then I said, "Look for the… big semi… Carlino Masonry… yeah… let's be quick."
I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing and my beating heart. This was going to be close.
Within five minutes, I heard sirens up on Church Street, then a minute later I felt Khalil's chest heave and stop.
I turned my head and looked at Vince Paresi dangling from the big crane. I took a deep breath and said to him, "It's over, Captain-we won."