Robert Tanenbaum - Bad Faith

Ascertaining that Lucy was not in any immediate danger from her wound, Jaxon moved to the railing and studied the terrorist vessel through his binoculars. He was still watching when a man on the cruiser dove into the water and another man ran to the rail and shot the diver. Blanchett immediately dispatched the shooter.

The Coast Guard vessel swept in closer. “Throw down your weapons and raise your hands,” a voice demanded over the gunboat’s loudspeakers.

Jaxon saw several men start to comply. He and everyone else around him began to relax as the police vessels cautiously moved toward the terrorists. Resistance appeared to be over.

Lucy, who’d picked herself up and was listening in again, yelled, “They want to surrender! I think-”

Suddenly, the terrorist boat erupted in a massive fireball that also consumed the police vessel closest to it. The heat and concussion could be felt on the ferry, still fifty yards away. Then all that remained was debris, some of which was still falling out of the sky, and small oil fires on the surface of the water. There were no signs of any survivors.

Jaxon heard the ferry door behind him open and turned to see Capers leading Malovo out, joined by Rolles and her partner, Masterson. “They do that or us?” Capers asked.

“Them,” Jaxon replied. “We weren’t shooting when it happened.” He slapped his hand on the railing. “Damn it, I would have liked to take those guys in and see if we could get them to talk. This was pretty sophisticated, media-savvy planning, and I’d like to know who was behind it.”

Malovo, who’d been looking with satisfaction at the debris on the water, shrugged. “Good riddance, no?” she said. “Besides, maybe the other two will be able to tell you something.” Capers turned to Malovo, who was looking at the fires burning on the water with a satisfied grin. The assassin laughed. “There’s just something about death that turns me on,” she purred. “Is it the same for you?” she asked, turning to meet Capers’s gaze.

Eyes blazing, Capers swung Malovo around and cuffed her wrists behind her. “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to take care of that all by yourself in a cell tonight.”

Malovo laughed again. “It would not be the first time, my beautiful friend, but perhaps someday we can let the men yell while we help each other with such things?”

“Not on your life,” Capers shot back. “There wouldn’t be enough hot water in the world to get the stench off.”

The smile disappeared from Malovo’s face for a moment, but then her eyes glittered and she grinned. “Perhaps someday we will take a shower together and find out, no?”

As they disappeared into the interior of the ferry, Jaxon looked over at Lucy, who was frowning and looking at the water where the terrorist boat had been. “What is it, Lucy?” he asked as he walked over.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I’ll talk to you about it later.”

Late that afternoon, Jaxon arrived in a dark sedan at a private entrance on the Hogan Place side of the Criminal Courts Building in downtown Manhattan. Clay Fulton was waiting for him there and escorted him to the elevator. They took it to the eighth floor and the anteroom that led directly into the inner office of the New York district attorney.

“I take it you’ve seen the news,” Jaxon said when he opened the door and saw Karp waiting for him.

“Yeah, caught it this morning and a few dozen replays since,” Karp replied. “Just got back from Beth Israel Hospital. Lucy’s lucky the bullet didn’t hit any organs or major blood vessels.” He paused for a few moments. “So everything went down like you told me it was going to.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Jaxon responded. “I was hoping we could take more prisoners.”

“What’s the body count?” Karp asked.

“Not sure on their side, maybe a dozen,” Jaxon responded. “We lost five police officers, two more badly burned, and one federal agent-the guy who’d been next to Lucy. Also, the pilot of the news helicopter is in serious condition, though the reporter seems to have gotten away with nothing worse than a dunking.”

“Could have been worse,” Karp noted.

“Much worse,” Jaxon agreed. “If we weren’t able to intercept these guys, it would have been a catastrophe. Hundreds dead. A big public-relations coup for al-Qaeda.”

“So we owe Malovo our thanks?” Karp asked, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jaxon replied. “She’s looking out for number one, herself.”

“I’d rather be prosecuting her for murder and putting her on death row,” Karp said.

“I won’t argue with you there.”

“You know she can’t be trusted.”

Jaxon sighed and nodded. “Funny, but you’re not the first one to say that to me today.”

“Honey?” David Ellis called out as he entered the tiny apartment on West 88th Street. There was no answer, nor sound of any kind aside from street noise outside. The shades in the living room were drawn, the windows closed, adding to the gloom and stillness.

She’s probably napping , he thought as he stood for a moment in the entranceway before closing the door behind him. Nonie, his wife, napped a lot and had ever since Micah died. And when she wasn’t asleep, she walked around as if in a daze and spoke in a monotone devoid of any emotion. The only time her voice was animated at all was when she talked about the Reverend C. G. Westlund, or if David said something that irked her, particularly if it could be construed as critical of the reverend.

In fact, Westlund was the reason David had feigned an illness at his job as a computer programmer so that he could come home and talk to his wife about her obsession with the man and their trial, which would start with jury selection in two days. He would have waited to talk until that evening after work, but when he got home she would usually already be in bed, or would soon rush out of the apartment to attend a church meeting or some other business with Westlund and wouldn’t come home until late, after he’d gone to bed. Awake, he’d listen to her slip quietly into the apartment and then would hear the door leading to their son’s old room, where she slept, click shut.

It had been a long time since they’d slept in the same bed, a fact he’d even once brought up with Westlund after Micah’s death, when he still thought of the reverend as a friend and spiritual guide. When he complained that his wife refused to have sex with him, Westlund had counseled him to be patient. Women whose children “are taken into the arms of God” often lose their sex drive as they grieve, the reverend advised. “Give her time,” he said.

However, time had only seen his marriage go from bad to worse, and he now considered the reverend a big part of the problem. When he complained to Nonie that she should be turning to him, her husband, when she needed consoling, she bitterly retorted, “The reverend is the only person who understands me.” She wouldn’t come right out and say it, but she implied that Micah would not have died if David’s faith had been stronger. And he knew where that was coming from.

More and more frequently she referred to Westlund by his first name, Charles, and his effect on her mood was increasingly evident. Alone in their marriage bed at night, David sometimes wondered if there was something more going on between his wife and Westlund than spiritual guidance. But his mind recoiled at the thought of such a betrayal.

He’d met Nonie at Tennessee Christian College when he was a senior computer science major and she was a junior studying early childhood development. She’d been the prettiest girl he’d ever met, with a nice smile and a laugh he could hear in his mind even when she was gone. He’d fallen in love, and to his surprise and delight, when he finally worked up the nerve to tell her after they’d been dating for four months, she confessed that she loved him, too.