Oliver Stark: 88 Killer

Carney thought of himself as a security expert. He told people willing to listen that he was an ex-Marine. In truth, he’d never made the Marines and ended up as a cop. He had become a good cop too, keeping his leanings hidden and his need for power in check, satisfied by seeing the destruction of others through his work with Hate Crime.

Maybe the assholes who were running this investigation would get to him, but he didn’t think so. He’d outsmarted them before, but not on this scale. This would give the truth about the Jewish conspiracy the maximum chance to get proper billing. Every story needed a picture and this would be it, a shattered street and a screaming line of hostages. He would make them recite the eighty-eight words into the camera, standing tied up in a bomb-shattered street. That was how it had gone in his mind, over and over again.

Carney took out his gun and held it as he watched the people start to gather at the Museum of Tolerance on the corner. It was a crisp spring morning, still below zero. He chewed on a piece of gum and watched as cars and people bustled by. All the time, Carney was counting the visitors entering the museum.

He drove the truck another hundred yards and parked right outside the museum next to an old beige bus, as close as he could so that the truck wasn’t visible from afar.

He got out quickly before anyone had the chance to question him, went into the back of the truck to set things up, then emerged carrying two metal crutches. He locked up and moved away. He limped towards the museum.

Brooklyn

March 15, 10.45 a.m.

Harper had seen the truck leaving and caught two numbers on the license-plate. It was an orange Dodge, but he didn’t catch its tail. By the time he was out on to the street where Denise’s car was parked, the orange truck had disappeared.

Harper and Denise called backup, but it was already in the street. They heard the sirens getting closer. Harper pulled back the bolts and moved across to Lucy.

Denise rushed to the exhausted body of Abby Goldenberg. She knelt at Abby’s side, stroked her face and looked down at her. ‘You okay?’

Abby managed to nod, but the last few minutes had left her reeling, her eyes closed.

Harper helped Lucy to her feet and walked her out of the brick cell. He looked across to Denise. ‘You want to get her out?’ he said.

‘We need a gurney, Tom, she’s very weak.’

‘We got to get on Carney’s tail, Denise. Soon as backup gets here we go, right?’

‘Okay,’ she said. Denise looked at Abby’s eyes. She was still the girl in the photographs, the beautiful, bright teenager, but the experience had left her gray and gaunt. ‘You’re going to be just fine,’ said Denise. ‘If I can do it, Abby, and I’m half as willful as you seem to be, then you’ll be back on your feet in no time.’

Abby’s eyes flickered open. ‘Where’s my daddy?’

Denise held her hand. ‘We’ll get him for you, dear. He’s fine. He never gave up. He’s been helping all this time, helping the cops find you.’

‘I knew he wouldn’t let anything happen,’ said Abby. ‘I felt him here the whole time.’ Then the girl’s face contorted and Denise tried to calm her. The noise of the squad cars and ambulances broke in from behind.

Denise turned as the uniformed cops entered with two paramedics. ‘Let’s get you to hospital, Abby. You need a little attention first.’

Denise let the paramedics take the girl. ‘You ready?’ she said to Harper. She steeled herself. It wasn’t over, not yet. The predator had ousted the victim once and for all, but the prey wasn’t down.

Harper ran for the exit, Denise followed. They jumped into a squad car and Harper started to drive.

‘Where we going?’ said Denise. ‘Carney’s got nowhere to go. He’s going to do something bad. We just have to try to get to him first. Every cop in New York will know about him by now.’ Harper called Lafayette as he drove. ‘What have you got set up?’

‘We’ve got all the bridges in Manhattan covered. Ditto all routes in and out of New York. He’s circled, Harper. An orange truck won’t go unnoticed. We got hundreds of men out there. It’s going to show up. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘He’s going to do something,’ said Harper. ‘You alerted Counter-Terrorism?’

‘All Hercules squads are live and active. If we get one sniff of him, he’s ours.’

‘That’s good,’ said Harper. ‘I’m worried about it, though. He’s known this day is coming for a while now.’

‘I know,’ said Lafayette. ‘We’re doing what we can.’

‘Parkways and expressways covered?’

‘Yep, like I said, we’ve got patrols on all major routes in and out.’

‘I don’t think he’s leaving. I think Carney knows this is over.’

‘He’s a dead man walking,’ said Lafayette.

‘No,’ said Harper, ‘he’s a ticking bomb.’

Harper hung up and continued to drive. He felt the frustration of being unable to do a goddamn thing. Denise had been trying to make calls on her cell phone.

‘How was Abby?’ he asked.

‘She’s pretty messed up, but the light’s still in her eyes,’ said Denise. ‘I guess she’ll be okay. I tried to call Aaron. He’s not at home and his cell went straight to message. He’s going to scream.’

‘He’s a lucky man. Down to you, Denise. You did good. Real good.’

‘ We did good. What did Lafayette say?’

‘Nothing seen or heard yet, but roads are covered everywhere.’ Harper cast his eye down another side street. ‘I need something on Carney,’ he said. ‘What’s he going to do?’

‘You want my analysis?’

‘Yes. You got anything?’

‘He’s going to make a final gesture,’ said Denise. ‘He’s a cornered animal now, there’s no way out.’

‘I know, but what’s it going to be?’

‘Josef Sturbe was there on the last day of the ghetto.’

‘And what happened on the last day?’ said Harper.

‘The Nazis blew up the Great Synagogue of Warsaw.’ Harper’s mind raced. ‘God help us, if that’s what he has in mind.’

Denise nodded to herself. ‘He might. It’s symbolic — a final action. I remember reading the reports by one SS officer. He said: “What a wonderful sight!” when looking at the burning synagogue.’

Harper called Lafayette immediately. ‘He might be going for a synagogue. Send the word out, get the patrols to every single one.’

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 15, 10.48 a.m.

Inside the lobby of the Museum of Tolerance, Carney stopped and took out a handkerchief. He wiped his brow and leaned down to feel his leg with a grimace. He tried to move on his metal crutches. The two security men stared across. One of them said something to the other. Carney’s training told him two things about getting through security — get noticed and then get the guards themselves noticed. Guards don’t like to be embarrassed.

Carney acknowledged their look and started over to them. His right leg slipped from under him and he sprawled to the floor, his leg lying straight as if injured. Carney yelled in pain. He tried to push himself to his feet but he couldn’t get up. One of the beefcakes moved slowly across.

‘Help me!’ Carney shouted.

The guard looked awkward as he crossed the marble floor.

‘Sorry, man, this is real embarrassing,’ said Carney. ‘I can’t get this attached without a seat.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll fix you up.’ The guy put his hands under Carney’s arms, picked him up and helped him across to a bench seat.