Liberty Falling-pigeon 7 (43 page)

The
Liberty IV
turned neatly, intersecting her own wake, and the sound of engines grew in pitch. "Dwight. Good man," she whispered, then lost it in a fit of coughing that ended in vomit tasting of salt and acid.

Cal, his arms ironwood and bone, held her gently. When the heaving stopped, Anna disentangled herself from him and sat up, her back against the bulkhead. Cal's face was a foot from her own and for the first time Anna could see his age. He hid it in the black heart of warm, understanding eyes. Cal had seen too many things and had never lost heart. "Tried to run me over," she said, making no sense even to herself. She ran out of steam.

"Old Dwight wasn't aimin' at you. He was aimin' at that little boat 'bout to dice you into sausage. Hit it too. Dead on. It's kindling. Dwight saved your life and you cussed him and punched him." No censure sharpened the deckhand's words. He was just telling a story. One that, by the twitch of his lips, amused him greatly. "Dwight stopped and I drug you out." Anna noted Cal was as wet as she.

"Thanks," was the best she could do.

He nodded his acceptance and Anna knew she was safe for the moment. It was okay to close her eyes. No it wasn't. They flew open, startling Cal. "Help me to the captain," she croaked.

Without argument, Cal lifted her. Her hundred and twenty pounds were nothing to him. After a few shambling steps she found her legs worked. Cal bore the brunt of her weight till they reached the short, steep stairs to the bridge.

"I beg your pardon," he said, and Anna felt powerful hands on her rump as he boosted her up. Not sure she could stand unaided, she crawled a couple feet and braced her back against the starboard bulkhead. "Get on the radio," she told Dwight. "The statue is full of explosives. Probably C-four. Idaho militia. Racists. Skinheads." To her own ears she sounded insane, but Dwight didn't question her. While he made radio calls, Cal came up to sit next to her. The deckhand was black, a mud person, a person to kill. Rage warmed Anna and her muscles grew stronger with the heat. "Skinheads," she repeated, thinking out loud. The white boy with the shaved head, the janitor, the lunk who had a swastika tattooed on his neck, the idiot who had "accidentally" tossed a forty-pound can to Charlie, effectively ensuring he wouldn't be climbing around the statue for a couple months. The others called this lump of humanity "Idaho." That was the reference she couldn't recall. He was the one who wanted to work S-6, Miss Liberty's breasts. That's where some of the charges would be.

Tucker or Mandy would have smuggled the stuff over from the abandoned halls on Ellis where they prepared the charges, hollowing out pillar candles and packing them with C-4, then resealing the openings with wax. Anna had found the wax shavings. Early on she'd gotten a whiff of the sweet-sour stink of the explosive. The candles, the wax, were to seal the C-4 so dogs couldn't sniff it out. A long time ago, in another life, she and two other girls had brought marijuana over the border that way. The pillar candles had left the distinctive round "elephant prints" in the garden and in the dust underneath the stairs.

On one of her nightly forays to torment Billy Bonham, it made sense Corinne might have stumbled across them in their preparations. They clubbed her down and threw her in the garden to die.

The C-4 would have been taken to Liberty by boat. They probably docked on the natural jetty in the blind spot behind Claypool's and passed the materials off to Idaho.

His janitor cart would have been the perfect way to carry the explosives and the climbing gear he would need to place the charges. One night he must have dropped a carabiner. Hatch had found it, clipped it to his belt, probably never suspecting what it meant. Or dying because he did suspect.

"The cavalry is on its way." Dwight broke into her thoughts. "And I got hold of Andrew. He's contacting Patsy, the Superintendent and anybody else he can get his hands on to start an orderly evacuation of the statue."

"Sorry I cussed you," Anna said.

"Enough said."

"Not a picnic," Cal remarked.

They knew what he meant. Stairs were narrow, elevators small; under the best of circumstances it would be thirty minutes or more before Mrs. Weinstein's people were clear.

"Call Andrew back," Anna said, remembering. "Tell him look for a thick white man. Called Idaho. On cleaning crew. May know him. Arrest him." Weariness was such that complete sentences were beyond her. In her mind's eye she saw again the look on Tucker's face when Mandy went over the side with the radio. Her guess was, Idaho was setting the charges. He would radio Tucker when he was clear and Tucker would flip the switch. Without the radio, there had to be a change in plans. Tucker now had to find Idaho, relay messages in person; then the both of them had to get clear and get back to where the transmitter was stashed so they could detonate the charges with a radio signal. "Tell Andrew to look for Castro clone," Anna said as Dwight spoke into the mike. "Armed and dangerous. Call security at MIO. If he's still got Mandy, arrest her. Police brutality requested." Energy sapped, Anna concentrated on breathing.

"These jokers couldn't have picked a worse day--or better, depending on how you look at it," Dwight said. "Everybody's on the island. They even had a tugboat land, but by the time Andrew got down to the dock to shoo it away it'd pulled out." He got back on the radio. Anna continued breathing.

When the
Liberty IV
docked, the pier was empty. Cal helped Anna ashore. Dwight told his handful of commuters in the lower cabin to stay on board and trotted off in the direction of the statue. In the distance was the chop of helicopters. The cavalry. There was nothing left for Anna to do. She didn't do bombs and didn't want to do crowd control. The monument had people for that. For once she would bow out and let others do their jobs. Molly would be proud.

Weary, sick and too sore to walk straight, she thanked Cal for saving her soggy little life and limped off clown the covered dock. Mrs. Weinstein hadn't stinted on the decorations. Japanese lanterns glowed, pastel moons hung from overhead beams. Pinatas, donkeys and bulls and a pig, grazed the air between them. African masks glowered from the roof supports. Chinese dragons on paper wind socks hung limp in the still air. It would have been a great party.

Wanting to avoid adventure, Anna didn't take the wide tourist thoroughfare between law enforcement headquarters and the concessionaire's building, but turned left at the end of the dock and squeezed through the high wooden gate that hid the ugly utilitarian part of the island from the public. The alley between the headquarters and the machine sheds was filled with the directionless light of evening. No shadows, no edges, lines ran together. Anna moved as if she waded through deep fog. The only thing tethering her to reality was the smell of deep-fried rancid coming from the Dumpsters.

"Anna," said a Dumpster.

She stopped. With an effort, she engaged her mind.

"Over here."

She knew she should have been startled, but she was too tired. Moving all of a piece so she didn't twist back or neck, she faced the Dumpster that had spoken. In this shadowless world a shadow lay half under the metal bin.

Andrew. Officer down. "Jesus," she whispered. She knelt next to him, her hands feeling for cuts, blood, deformities. "What happened?"

"Shot." His voice was strong. Good sign. Not scared. Shock killed as sure as bullets.

"Are you okay?" God, she was tired. It made her stupid and careless. Too late, she looked around the alley for possible danger.

"They took off a minute ago, maybe less." Andrew was dragging his lower half from under the Dumpster. A snail's trail of blood darkened the concrete beneath him. "I was locked with Ben--Idaho you called him. Another guy shoots me in the back. In the buttock. I rolled under here. They didn't take the time to kill me. He smashed my radio. My gun's under there." He pointed to the neighboring garbage bin. "Ben knocked it out of my hand when I got shot. He said something to the other guy about getting something from Mandy, if that makes any sense."

It didn't. Mandy was on Manhattan, preferably dead or in chains. Unless he'd said
Mandy's,
Mandy's house.

"You go. I got it under control here. I mean, I'm not dying or anything. Just useless. Go now."

While he talked, Anna squirmed under the Dumpster and retrieved Andrew's gun. A Glock 9mm, a good weapon. She chambered a round. "I'll be back," she promised. Arnold Schwarzenegger had said the same thing in
Terminator 2.
It sounded more convincing with the accent.

Anna ran lightly down the alley. Her heart wanted to sprint but she didn't dare press her luck. Another back spasm would be too costly. Both shoes were at the bottom of the harbor and her bare feet made no sound. Glock first, she rounded the corner slowly, her body partially shielded by ornamental shrubs.

Patsy's house was dark but for the window in the back where Mandy slept. The kitchen door stood open. The plane tree hid the walk and half the bench where the interpreter had smoked her cigarettes. Sitting in the dusk, as relaxed as if he'd not just shot a Park Policeman and tried to shoot and drown a ranger, was Andrew Jackson Tucker. His beard was wagging and Anna could see the dull glint of a knife or metal rod belonging to whoever sat beside him screened by the trunk of the tree. Idaho probably.

Tread soundless, Anna eased closer. Tucker wasn't as relaxed as she'd first thought. His eyes darted and his hand crawled incessantly around the pocket of his trousers. For some reason he'd pocketed his .45. Two mad bombers sitting on a park bench of an evening, shooting the breeze and fondling their weapons. The scene was hinky enough that it made the little hairs on Anna's neck stand up, but she had no reason to think things were going to get any better.

Stepping from the shelter of the shrubbery, she trained the Glock on Tucker. Though she made no sound, he saw her and grabbed at his trouser pocket.

"Don't," Anna said. "Don't." She would shoot him. He heard it in her voice and his hand moved reluctantly away from his weapon.

"We were having a nice talk. Would have ended nice as pie," Tucker said.

"You behind the tree, show me your hands. Hands first. Both in view. Move out from behind the tree. Slow. Hands first."

Two hands came out, about the same height as Tucker's face. Whoever it was didn't stand up. "Get up, move out," Anna ordered.

The hands trembled. Tucker reached for them as if to help. A familiar voice said, "Anna?" Tucker's hands closed over the new arrival's and, with a short jerk, pulled the other man from behind the tree, an arm wrapped around his throat and another around his gut.

"Jim." Anna wavered. "How did you get here?"

"Tug captain owed me a favor. Looks like I stepped in it."

"Shut up." Tucker kept his head behind Jim's. Anna couldn't get a clean shot.

"You're almost as stupid as that kid of yours," Tucker said. "But more useful. Get up." He stood, dragging Jim up with him. The aluminum walker Anna had taken for a club fell over.

Jim's eyes narrowed, grew hard, chips of flint in his wrinkled face. The crippled legs kicked feebly, then stopped. His arms, the only strength he had left, hung at his sides. He didn't even try to pull Tucker's forearm from his windpipe.

Anna kept the Glock where it was, hoping Tucker would make a mistake.

"This the guy that killed Jimmy?" James Hatchett asked evenly.

"More or less," Anna replied. Her arms were beginning to shake. Normally she could hold a handgun out for a good long time. Her recent swim and the outrage to her back robbed her of control. The barrel of the Glock trembled It would get worse. Precision shooting was no longer an option.

"Shoot, Anna," Jim said, and meant it. "Shoot right through me. Kill the bastard."

"Shut up, old man." Tucker worked the .45 out of his pocket and held it under Jim's jaw. "She can't do that. She's got to 'protect and serve.' She's a government lackey. She can't let you die even to save all those spies and slopes the government's so fond of. Hell, they're bringing 'em in by the boatload. Now they want to let the Jews make it mandatory our kids are taught to love their little mud brothers. Most Americans, real Americans, will celebrate the Fourth a little differently from now on. Freedom to be white, freedom to fight ethnic pollution. Freedom to refuse to let a bunch of Jews in Washington and New York brainwash our kids." Tucker walked backward, towing Jim along, keeping his body between himself and Anna's gun. Out from under the plane tree, onto the grass, moving toward the sea and Ellis Island, Jim's useless legs bumped pathetically over the ground. "Let's go blow up some mud pies," Tucker said. "You'll see how Liberty looks falling on a wall of subhuman mud."

"Why did Mandy kill Hatch?" Anna asked, to keep him talking long enough for the winds of fortune to blow her way.

"Stupid cunt. Nearly screwed the whole deal. Ben knocked her into the middle of next week for that stunt."

The black eye Mandy had been sporting; a small price to pay for taking a man's life. The screen door rattled and Tucker shouted, "You stay put till it's over, Ben. I got a little extra business." "What's happening, Pa?"

"Do as I tell you." If Tucker wanted Idaho to stay put, he must be unarmed. Good to know. Anna kept pace with Tucker and his flesh-and-blood shield. He was backing toward the chain-link fence. His boat would be moored there. In the boat would be a neat plastic box. That box would send a radio signal that would set off the C-4 strapped to Lady Liberty's bones.