Comes a Horseman (35 page)

“Deal.”

Brady dropped the transmission into drive and pulled out of the car wash, on the lookout for an all-night convenience store.

FORTY MINUTES later, they stepped into the Oakleys' living room. More lights were burning than was necessary, and Brady knew Kari had turned them on to make the house feel inviting. Taylor, born the same week as Zach, had stayed up past his bedtime to greet his friend. He had all kinds of ideas for things they could do, involving everything from s'mores to AirSoft guns. Taylor scrunched his face to break the news that his parents would make them do some things with his younger brothers, “. . . but if they become pains in the butt—”

“Taylor!” his mother reprimanded.

Brady wasn't sure if it was the language or the threat that riled her.

“Why don't you show Zach your tent?” she suggested, laughing.

Taylor took the bait. “Wanna see my tent? We can sleep in it!”

“Uhhh . . .” Zach turned his eyes to Brady.

“Go ahead. I'll come say good-bye.”

Zach said okay and followed Taylor. To Brady's surprise, instead of running out the back door, they charged up to the second floor.

Kari smiled, seeing his expression. “He put the tent up in his room.”

“It's pretty cool, actually.” Kurt laughed.

Both Kurt and Kari laughed easily—sometimes at things that were lost on Brady. But they were great people. He and Karen had arranged for them to have custody of Zach in the event of both of their deaths—an ethereal improbability at the time; now not so far-fetched. Brady still felt this would be the best place for his son. Perhaps he'd learn to laugh a lot. Brady could think of worse things you could teach a kid.

“Brady!” Kari exclaimed. “What did you do?” She lifted his hand and examined the bandages. “You're still bleeding.”

“Oh, I was cutting some ham,” Brady said weakly. “It looks worse than it is.”

“I have some gauze,” she said, heading toward the rear of the house.

“No, really,” he said. “It's fine. Just needs some time to heal.”

She eyed him skeptically.

Kurt peered out the front window at the SUV. “Coco out there?”

“We couldn't find him when it was time to go.”

Kari made an exasperated sound. “You did not leave that dog at home!”

“He went out and—”

“
Out?
You left him
outside
?”

“He's been slipping out of the yard lately. When we're not home and he's done terrorizing the neighborhood, he goes to the house next door. He'll be fine.”

No wonder so many people lie,
he thought.
It's easy.

Kari shook her head good-naturedly and invited him into the den for coffee.

“I can't,” Brady said, sincerely disappointed. It'd been almost a year since they'd gotten together, and he wondered why. Perhaps it had something to do with the difficulty of wallowing in grief around people who cared tremendously for you.

Kurt asked what was going on, and Brady told them there were some work issues he needed to settle. He said they were highly sensitive, and it would be better if they didn't try to reach him. When he added, “Under any circumstance,” their concern turned to anxiety.

Kurt's brow furrowed, and he stepped in to put a hand on Brady's shoulder. “What are you saying, Brady? What if something happens . . . ?”

“Under any circumstance,” Brady repeated. “Don't try to reach me through the Bureau. Don't leave messages at home or on my cell. I'm sorry, I can't tell you any more. But I will . . . when I get back.”

“Which will be when?”

“I don't know. A few days, a week. And please don't press Zach for information.”

“Of course we won't!” Kari sounded offended.

Brady felt a tinge of shame; he knew them better than that.

“I'll call when I can. Every day, at least.” He'd figure out a way to do it without jeopardizing Zach's location.

“Does Coco going missing have anything to do with this?” Kurt asked. He glanced with new suspicion at Brady's bloody hand.

Brady hesitated. He was asking if his mysterious errand was personal. Brady didn't know how to answer that. The Pelletier killer had made it personal. And Alicia had made him promise not to throw it right back into the Bureau's court.

“No,” he said simply and asked if he could get a thermos of coffee, black.

Kari marched off to the kitchen, and Kurt tried to apologize for seeming nosy by talking about nothing and asking innocuous questions: Taylor wanted to join Cub Scouts, and how did Zach like it? Was it okay if Zach rode their ATV? How about them Orioles?

When Kari returned with a dinged-up metal cylinder, Brady went upstairs to find Zach. They hugged and kissed, and Zach said, “Remember our deal.”

“You too.”

Zach nodded. He followed his father outside. Brady reversed out of the drive, Zach standing next to Kurt and Kari on the porch, waving solemnly. Brady honked and drove away.

47

M
idnight. He had made good time and now stood on the third-floor landing in the Marriott Times Square stairwell. The entire chamber—walls, floor, stairs—was made of concrete and coated with a sealant that made the surfaces appear wet. Bulbs in metal cages cast just enough light to dissuade people who took tumbles down the flights from claiming they could not see.

What Brady could not see was the message Alicia said she would leave here, informing him of her location. She'd said she was changing rooms and not to go to 522.

Okay, Alicia. Then where are you?

He scanned the floor, the door, the ceiling. Nothing. A fire extinguisher hung on the wall beside the door. He tugged it off its hook, gave it a cursory glance, and . . . there it was, written along the length of the red cylinder in what looked like a black Sharpie:

Great. One thing Brady was not was a cryptographer. He even avoided the rebus word games on the funny pages. What is meant by this: 2000washlbs? Answer: Washington. Get it? Wash-in-ton, 2,000 pounds being a ton. Ha-ha. But Alicia would know that, wouldn't she? They'd spent a lot of time together, but he couldn't remember if they'd ever broached the topic of word games or cryptography. He suspected she would keep it easy but make it something only he could break.

He thought about the first word,
Me.
She was leading him to her room, so the code must translate to a number. He thought: “
Me” is Alicia. What numbers are associated with her? Height: about five-six. That's sixty-six inches. Weight: uh, 120? Age: thirty-one.

Age was the only one that was definitive, at least to the extent of his knowledge. Well . . . what about the number of letters in
Alicia
? Outsiders could figure that out easier than her age. He decided to go with her age. Thirty-one.

“You” is me.
Thirty-three. Show . . . Show . . . Show what? Show off. Show up. Show me yours, I'll show you mine. Show me the money. Show business.

Neither she nor Brady was an outspoken fan of live performances, though he and Karen had attended a few concerts. Bruce Springsteen, Shawn Mullins, Jars of Clay. This line of thought wasn't going anywhere. Here they were, near Broadway, the epitome of the word
show
. He tried to remember if there was a show with a number in it. He realized he couldn't name three current shows, with numbers or not. She would not expect him to be up on Broadway shows or to get a newspaper. Another kind of “show” . . .

Television show!

Of course. They shared a favorite:
24.
Kiefer Sutherland played an agent with a government counterterrorism organization. The gimmick was that each season depicted exactly one day, and each weekly episode showed one hour of that day. Somehow the writers kept it exciting and believable, despite there being no way so many things could happen to one person in a single day.

Z.
Capitalized. It took all of three seconds: Zach. He was nine, so:

31 + 33 - 24 + 9 = 49

He decided the next line was intended to be worked out on its own, not to be added to or subtracted from or divided by 49.

Arm. The length of an arm? Too iffy. Five fingers? No, she would have written “hand.” Different kind of arm? Firearm?

Revolvers held six rounds. Semiautomatics anywhere from six to sixteen. His, a Glock semiautomatic with an extra-capacity magazine, held 23. She would not want him guessing, knocking on doors looking for her. It had to be something more precise.

Alicia, would it have hurt to have simply written the room number? Who would find it here?

He stepped down two stairs and sat on the landing. He scrutinized the puzzle on the fire extinguisher, turning it sideways and rotating it, as if the answer would appear if the ink was viewed from a different angle.

Arm . . . arm . . . arms race . . . arm in arm . . . something about an arm . . . recently . . .

Then he got it. Yesterday, on the way up to the Ft. Collins crime scene, they had talked about Rudy Muniz jumping on the hood of the kidnappers' speeding Charger. Alicia had said she'd broken her arm. When? At what age? Brady had visualized her at that age . . . fourteen. 4914. He opened the stairwell's fire door and entered the plush hall of the third floor. A sign pointed to the elevators, and he went that way, trying not to run.

SHE CRACKED the door after his second series of raps. An eye, peering past the security bolt. Brady noticed a cut on her brow, blood crusting in the fine hairs, smeared across her forehead. As soon as she saw him, the door closed, then immediately opened wide.

“Hurry,” she said, stepping aside. She was holding a washcloth to her right forearm. He was ready to ask about it when movement deeper within the room caught his eye. A tall black man dressed all in charcoal-colored clothes turned from something Brady could not see. The man eyed Brady suspiciously. A deep frown tugged at heavy jowls. His countenance resembled the tragedy mask in the Dionysus symbols of theater. His skin was so black and wrinkled, it seemed to be made of the same material as his. He was a specter of darkness in the lighted room.

Without a word, the man turned back to his hidden interest. Brady made a face at Alicia.

“Easy,” she whispered, closing the door and bolting it. “That's Apollo. I asked him to come.”

Brady watched as the man stepped sideways, revealing the object he was attending to. Brady's breath caught in his throat; he took an involuntary step back. Tied to a straight-back chair was a man. He was staring straight ahead, showing Brady only his profile. He looked frail, with skin as white as Apollo's was black. A great profusion of wispy black hair flowed from his head. His chest and stomach rose and fell rapidly. The man strained at leather straps binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. He uncoiled his fists, splaying long bony fingers ending in pointed, dark-painted nails. As if sensing Brady's scrutiny, he snapped his face around and let out a sustained hiss.