Timothy Zahn - The Green And The Gray

It was entirely possible that she herself would never know one way or the other.

There was a tap on her door. "Yes?" she called.

"It's Nestor," her guard replied through the panel. "Group Commander Sylvia requests your presence at dinner."

Caroline took a deep breath. "All right," she called back. "I'm ready."

Powell gripped the kitchen phone tightly, a sense of exhilaration momentarily eclipsing the fatigue dragging at his mind. "And you're all right?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Fierenzo's voice replied, sounding a little bemused by his partner's intensity. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Gee, let me think," Powell growled, a ripple of annoyance joining the emotional mix. This, he decided distantly, must be what it was like to have a teenager. "Maybe because you've been missing for forty-eight hours?"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Fierenzo said, sounding more preoccupied than actually sorry. "You up for a little drive?"

Powell glanced at the kitchen clock. It was just past nine-thirty. "How little?"

"A couple of hours upstate," Fierenzo told him. "Little town called Shandaken."

"Never heard of it."

"You take Exit 19 off the Thruway and drive thirty miles west on Route 28," Fierenzo told him.

"You can't miss it."

"Okay," Powell said, grabbing a pad and scrawling notes. "What's there that we want?"

"There's a little restaurant called the Junction Inn where Caroline Whittier used her Visa about half an hour ago," Fierenzo told him. "I'm hoping she's left us a note on a gum wrapper stuck to the underside of one of the tables."

An eerie chill ran up Powell's back. "Cyril wasn't blowing smoke, was he?" he asked quietly. "There really is a war brewing."

"Hell itself is brewing," Fierenzo confirmed tightly. "And we've got forty-eight hours to stop it.

Maybe less."

Powell looked at the clock again. "I don't suppose you know when this Junction Inn closes?"

"Probably before you can get there," Fierenzo said. "I was hoping you could be outside when they open in the morning."

"You think that'll be soon enough?"

"I don't know," Fierenzo conceded. "But the alternative is to blow in there tonight, wake up the owner and maybe a couple of state cops and demand they let you in. That would draw way more attention than I want to risk right now."

"Speaking of drawing attention, it might not be a good idea for me to suddenly go missing," Powell said as his brain started working again. "I've got a meeting set up for nine o'clock with Cerreta and Commander Messerling."

"S.W.A.T. Commander Messerling?" Fierenzo asked.

"You know anyone else with that name?" Powell countered. "I got the ball rolling a few hours ago when I thought you'd been kidnapped by one of these gangs. You want me to cancel the alert?"

"Better not," Fierenzo said. "It might be a very good idea to have them standing ready."

"Okay," Powell said. "Anything else I should tell them? Aside from the fact you're all right?"

"Not really," Fierenzo said slowly. "In fact... let's go ahead and leave out the part about me being okay."

Powell frowned. "Tommy, you can't keep this quiet. The whole department's up in arms."

"Which is exactly how we want them," Fierenzo pointed out. "Having a missing cop in the mix should help them be a little more inspired if and when this thing blows up."

"Except that you'll eventually have to come clean," Powell warned. "This is not what they call a good career move."

"I can take the heat," Fierenzo assured him. "As for you, you never knew anything about it. This conversation never took place. Got that?"

"We'll discuss it later," Powell said, keeping his voice neutral. Like hell he would leave his partner to take all the blame himself. "So what do you want to do about the Junction Inn?"

"We still need to see if Caroline left us a note," Fierenzo said. "You think Smith might be interested in an early-morning drive?"

"I can ask him," Powell said. "But I think I should let him know you're all right."

"No." Fierenzo's voice left no room for argument.

"He gave up his whole weekend helping us look for you," Powell said, arguing it anyway. "He deserves a little consideration."

"He deserves not to have his career go up in flames," Fierenzo countered. "You tell him I'm okay and we'll be making him a party to this deception. You and I may be able to weather that kind of storm, but he's way too junior to get away with it."

Powell grimaced. "I suppose," he conceded. "Okay, I'll get him on it as soon as you hang up. By the way, I never got to tell you what I found on the branch that was in that stolen Parks truck."

"Let me guess," Fierenzo said. "Dull axe marks?"

Powell made a face at the phone. "I don't know why you even bother with a partner," he said sourly.

"Yes, just like we found on the Whittiers' potted trees, only these went about halfway up from the broken end instead of all being clustered at the bottom."

"Don't sulk," Fierenzo soothed him. "It's still a useful confirmation."

"Confirmation of what?"

"Right now, I'm not at liberty to say," Fierenzo said grimly. "Just get Smith on the horn and point him upstate. And keep your cell handy. I might have to whistle you and Messerling up at a moment's notice."

"Don't worry," Powell said grimly. "We'll be ready."

Roger had been to Staten Island only once in his life, back when he was a child and his parents had taken him to see the Richmond Town Restoration. He didn't have much memory of that trip, but he'd come away with the vague impression of a place that was pretty quiet and very unexciting.

Now, at two o'clock in the morning, the island was even quieter.

"There," Velovsky said, pointing out the window at a collection of small shapes silhouetted against the reflected glow from the waters of the Upper Bay. "Third one from the left."

"Anyone around?" Fierenzo asked.

Jonah was sweeping the area with his binoculars. "Doesn't look like it," he said.

"Let's go, then," Fierenzo said, opening his door. "Roger, leave the keys above the visor."

Roger obeyed, the weight of the hammergun wrapped around his wrist still feeling strange. He climbed out of the car, closing the door to a crack instead of slamming it, and fell in behind Fierenzo, slogging through the loose sand as Velovsky and Jonah fanned out to either side.

They reached the shed without incident. "Locked," Fierenzo muttered, digging into a pocket. "I'll have to pick it."

"Don't bother," Jonah said, reaching over and pressing his thumb against the lock. "Gray general-use locks are keyed to pressure and body temperature. All I have to do is—there," he said as the lock snicked open.

Fierenzo pulled open the door and gave the weathered wood inside a quick sweep with his penlight.

Looking over his shoulder, Roger saw that the shed was empty, with no other doors or windows.

"What now?" he asked.

"This way," Jonah said, slipping past them and going to the far corner of the shed. He reached down and got a grip on something; and to Roger's amazement, a section of floor swiveled open on invisible hinges, revealing a set of narrow steps leading downward. "Again, general-use camouflage," Jonah explained as he propped the door back against the wall behind it. Twisting his wrist, he sent his hammergun flowing into his hand.

Roger did the same, though not nearly as deftly. Jonah gave a quick look around at the others, then turned to the staircase and started down, Fierenzo close behind. Roger followed, his heart thudding painfully, with Velovsky bringing up the rear.

The stairs were trickier than expected. Roger had grown up with the American standard of riser and step dimensions, which apparently was just slightly different from the typical Gray equivalents. Half a dozen times in the first thirty steps he caught his heel and nearly lost his balance. One of those times, as he grabbed for the smooth metal of the stairway to catch himself, his hammergun clattered against it, sounding as loud as a gunshot in his ears and eliciting a quiet but heartfelt curse from Velovsky. Letting go of the weapon, he let it flow back into its wristband, and from then on kept both hands brushing lightly against the walls for support.