Douglas Preston - Reliquary

Suddenly Hayward stopped short, motioning Carlin to do the same. Ahead in the dark she could make out a group of people—how many she could not be certain—swaggering in the direction of the Great Lawn. Can’t be cops, she thought. They’re not wearing riot helmets, or even hats. A noisy burst of hooting and cursing from the group confirmed her suspicion.

She moved forward quickly, running on the balls of her feet to minimize noise. At ten yards back she stopped. “Halt!” she said, hand on her service piece. “Police officers!”

The group came to a ragged stop, then turned back to look at her. Four, no, five men, youngish, dressed in sports jackets and polo shirts. Her eyes took in the visible weapons: two aluminum bats and what looked like a kitchen carving knife.

They stared at her, faces flushed, grins still on their youthful faces.

“Yeah?” one of them said, taking a step forward.

“Stop right there,” Hayward said. The man stopped. “Now, why don’t you boys tell me exactly where you’re headed?”

The man in front scoffed at the stupidity of the question, indicating the interior of the Park with the merest jerk of his head.

“We’re here to take care of business,” came a voice from the group.

Hayward shook her head. “What’s going on there is none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t,” the one in front snapped. “We’ve got friends there, getting the shit beat out of them by a bunch of goddamn bums. There’s no way we’re going to let that go on.” He took another step forward.

“This is a police matter,” Hayward said.

“The police haven’t done jack shit,” the man replied. “Look around. You’ve let this scum trash our city.”

“We heard they killed twenty, thirty people already!” came the slurred voice of a man holding up a cellular phone. “Including Mrs. Wisher. They’re trashing the city. They got bastards from the East Village and Soho to help them out. Goddamn NYU activists. Our friends need help.”

“Got that?” said the one in front. “So get out of the way, lady.” He took another step forward.

“You take another step and I’ll part your hair with this;” Hayward said, slipping her hand from her gun to her baton and sliding it smoothly from the belt ring. She felt Carlin tense beside her.

“Pretty easy for you to talk tough,” the man said scornfully. “With a gun on your belt and a goddamn human refrigerator at your side.”

“Think you can take all five of us?” said someone in the group.

“Maybe she thinks she can smother us all to death with those jugs of hers,” said another. Several grins broke out.

Hayward took a deep breath, then replaced her baton. “Officer Carlin,” she said, “please take twenty steps back.”

Carlin remained motionless.

“Do it!” she snapped.

Carlin stared at her for a moment. Then, without turning or taking his eyes from the group, he began walking backward down the path they had come.

Hayward stepped deliberately up to the lead youth. “Now listen up,” she said evenly, without taking her eyes off his. “I could take off my badge and my piece, and still kick all your sorry white-bread asses back to Scarsdale, or Greenwich, or wherever it is your mothers tuck you in at night. But I don’t need to do that. See, if you refuse to follow my instructions to the letter, then your mothers won’t be tucking you in this evening. They’ll be waiting in line at Police Plaza tomorrow morning to make your bails. And all the money, or power, or influence in the world won’t be able to remove the words intent to commit felonious assault from your police record. In this state, a person convicted of a felony can never practice law. They can never hold public office. And they can never get a license to trade securities. And your daddies aren’t going to like that. Not one bit.”

She paused a moment. “So drop your weapons,” she said coolly.

There was a brief instant in which nobody moved.

“I said, drop your weapons !” she yelled at the top of her voice.

In the silence that followed, she heard the clink of an aluminum bat hitting asphalt. Then another. Then came a quieter sound: a steel blade dropping to the earth. She waited a long moment, then took a deliberate step backward.

“Officer Carlin,” Hayward said quietly. In a moment, he was at her side.

“Shall I frisk them?” he asked.

Hayward shook her head. “Driver’s licenses,” she said to the group. “I want those, too. Drop them on the ground right there.”

There was a brief pause. Then the youth in front dug a hand into his jacket pocket, removed his wallet, and let the plastic card flutter to the ground. The rest followed suit.

“You can pick them up tomorrow afternoon at One Police Plaza,” she continued. “Ask for Sergeant Hayward. Now, I want you all to walk straight past me until you reach Central Park West. Then I want you to go your separate ways. Do not pass Go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Head straight home, and go to bed. Understand?”

There was another silence.

“ I can’t hear you !” Carlin’s voice roared out, and the men jumped.

“We understand,” came the chorused response.

“Then move out,” Hayward said. The youths stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot.

“ Shake it !” she barked. The group started up, silently, heads straight ahead, walking slowly at first, then faster, toward the west. Soon they had vanished into the darkness.

“Bunch of pricks,” said Carlin. “You think twenty or thirty were really killed?”

Hayward snorted as she bent to pick up the weapons and licenses. “Hell, no. But if the rumors keep spreading, people like that are going to keep coming. And this situation will never get resolved.” She handed him the bats with a sigh. “Come on. We might as well report in and see if we can help out tonight. Because tomorrow, you know we’re going to get our butts reprimanded for what happened down in those tunnels.”

“Not this time,” Carlin replied, grinning slightly.

“You said that before.” Hayward turned toward him. “Just what are you telling me, Carlin?”

“I’m telling you that this time, the righteous shall be rewarded. And it’s the Millers of the world who will get hung out to dry.”

“And just when did you acquire this gift of prophecy?”

“When I learned that our friend Beal, who you helped into the ambulance back there, is the son of one Steven X. Beal.”

“Steven Beal, the state senator?” Hayward asked, eyes widening.

Carlin nodded. “He doesn’t like people to know,” he said. “Afraid people will think he’s pulling influence to get an easy ride or something. But that crack on his head must have loosened his tongue a bit.”

Hayward stood motionless a moment. Then, shaking her head, she turned back in the direction of the Great Lawn.

“Sergeant?” Carlin asked.

“Yes?”

“Why did you ask me to step away from those punks like that?”

Hayward paused. “I wanted to show them that I wasn’t afraid. And that I meant business.”

“Would you have?”

“Would I have what?”

“You know,” Carlin gestured. “Kicked their asses back to Scarsdale, and all that.”

Hayward looked at him, raising her chin slightly. “What do you think?”

“I think—” Carlin hesitated a moment. “I think you’re one scary lady, Ms. Hayward.”

= 56 =

AS THE LAUNCH sliced through the dark waters of the Hudson River, Snow suited up belowdecks, feeling the hull tremble with the muffled rumble of the big twin diesels. There was barely enough room to stand amongst the loran gear, geopositioning satellite units, sonar equipment, and arms lockers. He noted that it was a wet suit, not the usual sealed dry suit the police team wore, and instantly regretted his suggestion to go in through the treatment plant. Too late, he thought, struggling with the suit. The boat lurched and he pitched forward, banging his head painfully against a bulkhead.