Henry Pride

By Jeffery David Paradis

“Why are you doing that?”
Without turning or pausing in his work, Henry said, “Because I must.”
“Who are you?” she asked in amazement.
Henry missed the deeper question and answered mechanically.
“I am Henry Pride.”

Henry Pride is a simple man with few needs. To live a solitary life with as little human contact as possible and follow a strict routine are his only requirements. His condition demands it of him. However, as an assassin such limitations are often challenging. For more than 20 years, Henry has managed to maintain the balance. Cleaning, reading, solving puzzles, and contriving ingenious accidents filled his days and Henry was content.
Men of wealth and power have put great plans into motion, plans now derailed by a choice made by a hit man, whose name they do not even know. An entire organization may collapse if one woman does not die. However, even from within there is betrayal and the key to success will be in finding the assassin, an odd man named Henry Pride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffery David Paradis
• Release date: Jan 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9780991846504

Jeffery David Paradis

There seems to be two schools of thought when one contemplates writing an author's bio. The more traditional wisdom suggests that one be concise, direct, and brief. Include relevant details and something interesting about yourself. (Yes, I am writing this myself so perhaps auto-bio would be more precise.) On the other side of the coin are those who say stop being dry and boring. Write something that your reader may actually find interesting. I will go the unconventional route. If there is one overriding theme in my life, I think my grade 4 teacher, Mrs. Lemenchick best summed it up in my report card. Jeff lacks focus. He always seems to be daydreaming. I cannot fault her on the assessment she had me pegged. My mind was forever wandering to what was happening at the neighboring desk or outside, or much further beyond. This character flaw followed me through my life. I went to music school (turns out I have absolutely no aptitude for music at all), I studied physics in university, worked in a recording studio and found a job as a high rise window cleaner in downtown Toronto for several years. None of those things satisfied me. Secretly I wanted to create stories; I wanted to be a writer. However, what kind of man pursues such a risky notion when he is expected to find a stable and responsible career? So I found a regular job and earned a paycheck...and daydreamed. About two years ago, I was getting ready to turn in for the night. It was late and I had to be up early for work the next morning. After I clicked the television off, I found myself just staring at the blank screen. Dreaming about writing is safe and easy, one never has to take a chance. Once you begin to put the words down, the spell is broken and you set yourself on the road to criticism. But at that moment, on that night I could feel the need so strong I had to do something. To my mind, what is the difference between thinking of writing and doing so and never sharing your story? There is none. Once you release your work into the world, the door opens for everyone to say, ‘this is not good’. I could either spend years thinking about creating a story of my own and never knowing if I could, or I could sit down, begin to type, and see if I had it in me to create something. I made a decision. I sat down, that very night, and began to write. For five months, I typed as often as I could, using up every spare moment I could find. I'm just as susceptible to vanity as any man. Every page deeper I wrote, images of fame, fortune, and acclaim grew in my mind. I pictured topping charts, breaking sales records, movies, and Broadway plays spawning from my art. Who wouldn't love my work? Then I finished and sat back to admire my 485 page masterpiece. It was awful. The grammar was a mess, the spelling atrocious. The language was loose and inconstant. My story spun from one idea to another with only loose connections. And, for all of that, I felt that the entire exercise had been a complete success. Not the book itself though. I still think there's a good story buried there but it will require a total re-write to flesh it out. Maybe one day I’ll take the time to find out but for now I have so many other ideas to explore. My goal had been to see if I had a story in me, something unique and interesting to say and see it through to the end. By that measure, I met my goal. It was a wonderful learning experience. During the writing, I researched style, flow, grammar, and a host of tools I would need. Much of what I learned was enormously helpful and some was not but I learned. Then I began my second book, then my third. I think my technique improved to the point where my stories are interesting and readable, but I will leave that to the reader to decide. Eventually I stumbled on Henry Pride. I say stumbled on him because he popped into my mind one day while driving home. His face appeared in my mind and I knew I had to write Henry Pride. I put aside what I was working on at the time and spent all of my energy developing Henry. What he looked like, how he sounded, thought, felt, and how he would behave. When I understood him, I turned him loose, followed behind him, and wrote down what he did. I felt like nothing more than Henry's biographer. I had no idea where the story would take me and often would be surprised at what happened. It was during Henry Pride that a friend gave me a copy of Stephen King's book, On Writing: A memoir of the craft, a very good book by the way. The one thing that stuck with me was his second commandment of writing. Write every day. It doesn't matter what you write about, as long as you work at it regularly. Explore different ways of expressing yourself, characters, and description. I took his advice and now I write every day. Sometimes only a few hundred words, others I have several thousand in me. Not because I think of success but because I can't imagine not doing so daily anymore. Writing has brought back that little grade four student who was always staring out the window but now, I have focus. I write because I need to, it's who I am. If my stories become popular that would be welcomed but I will continue regardless, even if only a few read them. Henry Pride is actually my third completed book but my first to be offered for you to read. I do hope you enjoy it and thank you in advance if you take the time to read about Henry. My second book, Simon Fink will be published later in 2013. One other quote has always stuck with me over the years... “I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.” ― Ernest Hemingway If an author such as Hemingway struggled to find the words, I can live with my own difficulties. I will continue searching for my single pages, even though my wastebasket overflows.

Book preview

Prologue

BEFORE he regained consciousness, a primitive ancient part of his mind stirred. That part had been millions of years in the making. There was a time when the beast inside had been dominant, not tucked away in a dark hidden corner of his mind, a memento of simpler and yet more frightening days.

Back when it ruled supreme on the dry dusty savannah, the heart-pumping thrill of the hunt and fear of the stalking predator in the dark were the extent of its world. Now it was only a shadow, there to serve but one function, as warning system, an inner cry of impending danger.

That warning did not come in terms of words or phrases but as that tingling sensation saying something was not quite right. More developed parts of his brain began to awaken at the alarm. Still not yet fully aware but beginning to sense the urgency in the primitive call.

The man was not conscious but reaching for that higher state, yet the wheels began to turn and questions were asked. Simple at first;

Who am I?

Where am I?

Again, they were not given voice even inside his mind but only the groggy, uncertain fumbling of a sleepy brain. Orientation came and with it a startling discovery.

I am Dan.

As far as revelations go, it was not the most profound but in that simple statement were the cornerstones of identity. However, there were other questions of greater importance, which needed answers.

Where is the danger?

Who has done this to me?

How did this happen?

In no particular order and with these questions in mind, we shall begin.

Henry Pride

Present day

1

SOMEWHERE in a dusty forgotten corner of his mind, the primitive watcher had called the alarm and the others were rousing to the cry. Awareness came to him in a confusing array of sensory inputs. Dan’s head throbbed, there was an odd taste in his mouth, and he could not seem to focus. There was a peculiar heavy lethargy deep in his bones. As Dan struggled to sit up a funny thought occurred to him.

I can’t move. How did this happen? Where did everything go wrong? Dan asked himself.

The flow of events leading up to waking in bed seemed hard to recreate, but he reached back into his memory trying desperately to find something onto which to hold. A memory was there...something about a man in a white coat. He had said something to Dan and it had angered him.

What was it? Then the memory floated up...

Detective, are you alright? the coroner asked.

That’s right I was at the Coroner’s office…

What? Dan replied absently.

I said, are you okay detective.

Dan suddenly felt very angry.

What kind of stupid question is that? My partner is dead!

Detective Dan McTeague of the NYPD had been off duty for the day, a rare occasion for him. Sleeping in, taking a late breakfast, and watching a little television, all in all a nice relaxing day. Then the call had come and everything changed.

Dan, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just do it quick. Sam was found in his car a little while ago. He’s dead Dan. Someone needs to go down and identify his body. Can you handle it? His lieutenant tried to sound soothing but Dan’s mind reeled.

His partner of eight years, Sam Waters, had no wife, children, or any close family at all, so someone in the department needed to fill the unpleasant role of next-of-kin. In a monotone voice Dan said he would head down to the coroner’s office right away. The lieutenant offered empty platitudes and told Dan to wait there. As soon as he could break away from his meeting, he would meet him at the morgue.

A while later Dan realized he was still standing in his kitchen, holding the phone to his ear, the harsh tone of a disconnected line pulsing insistently from the speaker. He hung up and slumped into a seat at the kitchen table.

Had he heard correctly? Maybe the lieutenant had meant that he was to meet Sam at the coroner’s office to identify a body. Surely, Sam could not be dead. They were supposed to meet at the pub in an hour for dinner.

For fifteen minutes Dan debated in his mind what the lieutenant had meant. Finally numb with shock, Dan grabbed a jacket and did the only thing he could think of. Get to the coroner’s office and find out just what the hell was going on.

He hardly remembered the drive or walking into the building of the Chief Medical Examiner and found he was standing before a chrome gurney, the astringent smell of the morgue souring his empty stomach. A young man in a lab coat said something he did not hear and flipped the sheet back. Exactly as had happened earlier with the phone, the world receded away, Dan lost track of time and his surroundings. He stood staring at Sam lying before him, naked on a steel table, unarguably dead.

Sam had seemed such a big man for all the years he knew him but now he looked like a withered old man. Dan knew the assistant ME had been talking but not a word registered. His brain seemed to have stopped functioning properly because all he could think of was his father, and he had been dead for more than six years.

2

SAM was dead but that information held no answers for Dan as to why getting out of bed was so difficult, or why he felt there was something urgent he should be doing. Trying to turn his head slightly, Dan found that even this tiny movement was restricted. Eyes stinging, he surveyed the room as far as his limited view permitted. The bedside table swam into view and another alarm echoed deep inside, the guns were gone. He struggled to remember why that should be significant.

Why did I think I left the guns on the table? I always put them in a drawer when I come home, and why does father keep popping into my mind?

When Dan was a little boy, his father had a saying for every occasion. Every dumbass question deserves a smartass answer or Boy, you’re grinning like a smokehouse rat. What have you been up to? Dan could hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind, passing on the accumulated McTeague wisdom from father to son.

Immobile in bed he could picture himself as a boy, sitting in the living room of his old house, father reading the newspaper and snapping out his pearls of wisdom about the stories he read. Mother agreeing from the kitchen, even though Dan knew she had not understood a single word.

The elder McTeague had been a bear of a man. Broad shouldered, thick arms and even thicker neck but then all McTeague men were built hardy and Dan was bigger than most.

In his earliest memories, when his father began instructing him with the endless supply of sayings, Dan had been a scrawny little thing. Smaller than the other kids his age, short and sickly looking but by the first year of high school, he had exploded with growth and overshadowed even the seniors.

When he asked permission to join varsity football in his sophomore year, his father set the paper down and asked only one question.

What position?

He had not really given much thought to what position he would play. The only objective had been to get permission and show up for tryouts.

Um...quarterback? In truth, quarterback was the only position he could name.

His father shook his head in disappointment and picked up the paper again.

Quarterback is for pussy’s boy! He announced. McTeague’s don’t play quarterback.

Dan’s heart sank. All the glory he imagined on the field was now lost. His father would refuse to give permission and he would be relegated to watching from the bleachers.

McTeague’s play on the defensive line, we’re outside linebackers. The wicked smile, which spread across his father’s face, appeared over the top of his newspaper. That’s where all the fun is. Dan would get that permission.

Why am I thinking about that? Dan thought as he tried to put the pieces together.

I’m in trouble.

The warning had come from somewhere deep inside him and even though he could not identify the danger, he knew it was true nonetheless.

Then his mind jumped to another memory of his father, the day after graduation from the police academy. His father had proudly taken Dan to the bar where the men from his precinct drank after shift and introduced him to everyone. He was now a third generation cop but more importantly, a McTeague cop. They forced him to drink until the room spun wildly and each man tried to fill him with a street cop’s wisdom.

Listen to your partner.

Watch your back, not just from the scumbags out there but there are lots of rats on the force.

Never enter anywhere alone.

Keep a backup gun on you always.

Get to know the people on your beat, they’ll help you.

If you pocket anything, never tell anyone.

Always watch your partner’s back.

The advice came non-stop and the flow of alcohol made it difficult to remember who had said what or even if he had heard correctly. In the end, his father had set him straight the morning before his first patrol.

I know the officer you’re partnered with, he’s a good man. Do what he says. Watch his back. Don’t act before he does. Watch every move he makes and do as he does and for god’s sake, keep your eyes open and your head down.

Always watch your partners back. Why was that the one that stuck out now? he wondered. Had he let Sam down? They were off for the day. Could this all have been his fault somehow?

Then he jumped in his mind to the day he made detective. His father had taken him out to celebrate and when he reported to the Major Crimes unit, severely hung-over, a smirking sergeant showed him to a desk and told him to wait. Slumped in a chair, head in hands, trying to remember what had possessed him to drink so much, another man slid into the chair opposite. He was a dozen years older than Dan but looked just as pale as he did.

Wearing dark glasses and holding a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, the other man noticed Dan staring at the antacid.

Hung-over too? he asked passing the bottle to Dan.

Yeah, just a little. I’m Dan McTeague. Spent the night celebrating making detective, he said taking a swig.

Sam Waters. Celebrating my partners retirement, taking the bottle back.

Guess you’re the new kid, Sam said and took a long swallow.

Sam had taken the younger detective under his wing and shown him the ropes. They drank together, ate together, and became like brothers. They would even consult with Dan’s retired father on troubling cases. Sam became an honorary McTeague and grieved with Dan when his father died of cancer.

3

GLOWING red blurs danced in front of him and for a moment and he could not imagine what their significance could be. Then numbers resolved as his focus stabilized, 11:23pm. The fog in his mind parted and he remembered everything, particularly what he was supposed to be doing just then.

The meeting!

How had he overslept? Never before had he done anything so foolish. Sleeping through an operation, that was not like him. Then the earlier thought came back but this time his mind was working more clearly.

I can’t move. He tried to shift his body but was held firmly in place.

I’m tied down, shit! They found out.

Now that he recalled what he had been doing, the memory of the Coroner’s office returned to him and with it the pain of facing Sam’s death.

Just hours earlier he had been staring down at the grey lifeless face of Sam. Dan knew his partner was dead but at the same time, his mind rebelled, insisting that this tiny frail body could not possibly be Sam.

His mind drifted back to his father for a moment and he absently wondered what pearl of wisdom the elder McTeague might have for him in this situation. One apt phrase leapt forward.

Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug. Dan was certainly feeling like the bug today. He had to admit Sam was probably more the bug than he was but it was hardly the time for a game of, ‘who’s having a shittier day?’

The assistant ME had asked if he was all right and Dan snapped at him,

What kind of stupid question is that? My partner is dead!

Well you look a little green detective. I understand this was your partner. You may be used to dealing with these situations when you don’t know the deceased but when you do it can be distressing.

He thought the coroner sounded patronizing, like Dan were some kind of first year rookie.

I’m fine, he said stiffly. How did he die?

Um...I’m sorry detective but this isn’t your case. I’m afraid I can’t reveal that information to you.

A little professional courtesy doctor, you never know when you might need a favor, Dan said it less as a request and more as a threat.

The doctor shuffled his feet for a moment and flipped through the pages of his notes.

I can’t tell you much at this point but it looks to me like a drug overdose, won’t know till toxicology comes back.

Dan’s frustration flared to rage.

Overdose? That’s bullshit! Sam wasn’t a junkie. Don’t you write that in your report, you got me? Dan closed in, trying to use his size to intimidate the smaller man.

The coroner regretted saying anything at all and nodded agreement in the hopes that the detective would believe him and leave. Dan knew the official cause of death would be entered in the record no matter how much he bullied the scrawny M.E.

What are the names of the officers who found him?

The examiner wanted nothing more than to be rid of the imposing detective and it seemed only fair that his own should deal with him. Flipping through a few pages, he found the information.

Terry Hanson and Roger Browers out of the seventeenth.

Dan had never worked in the seventeenth but he knew the precinct was in mid-town. Mumbling halfhearted thanks over his shoulder, he headed for the door.

Dan pushed the outer door of the Chief Medical Examiner’s office open so hard, the heavy steel frame slammed against the wall. A tall skinny elderly Italian man, or maybe he was Mexican or Spanish, Dan could not be certain, but the swarthy man was walking past and Dan almost caught the him in the shoulder.

NYPD outta my way! Dan barked.

The old man cowered back, looking terrified.

Geezeus! Ya scared me son. He had the sound of the Bronx and scurried away quickly.

The old man’s obvious fear of Dan made him feel a little better but not for long. The night was cool and Dan pulled his coat tight around him as he hurried to his car.

On a normal day, the amount of paperwork any police offer was required to fill out was tedious and boring but in the event of an officer’s death, the department had a special stack for everyone involved to climb their way through. This was where he found the two men he was looking for. At desks, trying to work through the forms was quickly as possible.

Boys, how’s the work coming?

Yeah, getting there, the younger one sighed.

Detective McTeague. He flashed his badge quickly, can I ask you a few questions about the Sam Waters death?

He figured getting right down to business would be the best route with these two.

Terry Hanson. Sure, you I.A? Hanson was the veteran.

Uh, no I’m not Internal Affairs. Major Crimes, Sam was my partner.

Dan was hoping they would just assume the case was his.

The two looked at each other.

You know we’re not supposed to discuss this before we give our statements, Hanson reminded Dan.

Dan knew the procedures as well as they did but thought he heard some sympathy in the tone. Nobody cared for Internal Affairs.

Yeah, I know but I think this has to do with the case we were working on. Once IA gets their hands on this, it’ll be weeks before I can get the real story.

Terry nodded his head. He had been around the department long enough to know how things worked and even though he was uniform and Dan was plain clothes, they were still brothers.

Okay but make it quick, if those pricks see us talking to you we’re gonna get written up.

A few minutes was all Dan needed, he would certainly make this quick, they would not be the only ones written up if I.A. arrived soon.

Did anything seem wrong about the scene to you?

You mean did it look staged? You think this was a set up? Terry asked.

Dan recognized Hanson was quick and would probably make a good detective.

Yeah that’s exactly what I’m thinking.

Terry thought for a few minutes. Then he shook his head,

Nope. Wasn’t much to it really. Just a guy behind the wheel. Looked asleep or maybe passed out. We didn’t know he was one of us.

Was the door locked? Dan asked.

Terry shook his head. No.

Keys in the ignition?

Terry picked up on Dan’s line of thinking right away.

Yeah, the keys were in the ignition but they hadn’t been turned. Radio was off but the door chime did come on so there was power. His seat belt was... Terry thought for a second and then seemed to remember, it wasn’t done up. Like he climbed in, put the keys in, and sat there, nothing looked out of place or unusual at all.

Any sign of drugs, needles, stuff like that? Dan asked.

The two officers exchanged a look and both gave non-committal gestures, Dan suspected they were avoiding answering. Something about that glance said, ‘keep quiet.’ They were smart enough not to suggest any kind of wrong doing to an officer’s partner but their looks confirmed what the ME had told him.

It’s a lie, a filthy goddamned lie! That bastard Vinny will pay for this. Dan was furious but he tried to rein in, these two were not to blame.

Find anything in his pockets?

Roger Browers cut in then. He was younger than Terry but had the look of having walked a beat for a few years.

I searched him. Found his ID, wallet, some change, and this. He pointed to a small spiral notepad on the desk. Dan recognized the book as the one Sam always carried with him.

Can I take a look at it?

The younger patrolman looked nervous at the question but Terry said, Sure but be quick, they’ll be here soon.

Dan scooped up the tattered spiral pad as the word ‘sure’ floated across the desk. He flipped through the pages. Sam always carried the notebook with him and Dan had even made notes in the pages. As he flipped from front to back, words popped out, reminding him of leads on old and current investigations. The second last page held notes of a meeting they attended the day before with their lieutenant. The last page had only one line.

F.B. Air 2am 21st-Dan

The Dan was underlined several times. He stared at the cryptic note in Sam’s scratchy handwriting. They seemed to be random words and numbers, which made no sense. He could feel time running out, I.A. would arrive any moment and could not afford to be caught looking though possible evidence. Hanson and Browers kept their heads down examining the forms as if they contained the secrets of the universe. Tearing the page out and stuffing the paper into his pocket, Dan turned and walked away. They said nothing, neither did he.

4

GODDAMMED F.B. Air! Dan fumed inside his mind.

The time for the meeting was close and if he could not get free and across town, Sam’s death would be for nothing.

Fighting to get up quickly became a pointless effort. His head would still not respond but Dan could at least shift his eyes. Looking down he saw his knees and realized he was lying on his side facing the kitchen. He could see no ropes but still could not move. Beyond the bedside table directly in front of him, something drew Dan’s full attention.

On the kitchen table, a medium sized suitcase sat where he knew there had not been one before. Like a pilot’s flight kit, black and square, the flaps at the top opened. A hand appeared from the other side and closed the flaps. The skin was a dark chocolate color and the fingers looked old and skinny, like a black skeleton hand but there was an unnatural waxy shine to the skin.

Dan tried to call out, demand an explanation, and tell them they were messing with the NYPD. For some reason he could not utter a sound. Worse than that, Dan found his breath coming short. He had the urge to breathe deep, as if he had been diving too far underwater and needed air but would not breach the surface in time. He started to see spots and blackness closed in.

When the dark took him, his mind brought him back to the investigation and F.B. Air...

As he left the seventeenth precinct, the notation kept running through his mind.

F.B. Air 2am 21st-Dan

Tonight is March nineteenth, so I think it’s safe to assume the twenty-first is two days from now. 2am seems obvious and my name must mean Sam wanted to tell me about this.

Dan could only surmise that his partner was going to tell him about this new lead at dinner, the dinner they would now never have.

They must have found out Sam knew about this, killed him, and made it look like a drug overdose.

The reference to F.B. Air meant nothing to him.

What could F.B. Air be? An airline? Cargo company?

There were always little freight and commuter companies popping up and folding all of the time, Dan was not surprised he had never heard of them before.

Did Sam find out something big about the Amendola family? A shipment or maybe some kind of corporate cover?

At least he had something to do, a lead to follow. If he just sat around, he would sink into a black mood, thoughts of Sam in the morgue and the lies of him being a drug addict. The sooner he got to the bottom his death, the less damage might be done to his partner’s reputation.

As he climbed into his car, Dan noticed the time,

10:17pm

He still had the crazy feeling he was going to be late meeting Sam at the pub. Rage over Sam’s death and the rumors spreading about him flared brightly in him once more. Dan wanted to hit something. He slammed a hand down on the steering wheel and felt a little better, so he hit it again. He felt even better when he screamed as he hit the steering wheel.

Over and over he punched and smashed his big heavy fists all over the interior, screaming like a maniac. The rear view mirror went spinning away and the light on the radio quickly went dark as he punched that too. Panting, sweating, and blood dripping from several cuts on his hands, Dan felt calmer.

Vinny, you’re going to suffer for this, Dan vowed as he started up the car.

He could go into the office and use his computer, nobody would be there this late, but he could not afford any department record of his investigation. If they knew he was looking into Sam’s death, he would be ordered to stop. But like his father always said,

Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

As things stood, he would probably be pulled from active duty and put on leave until I.A. cleared Sam’s death. Then he would be required to see the police shrink and that could take weeks, not to mention all of the touchy feely nonsense they would try and squeeze out of him. By then the lead would be just as dead as Sam was.

And those goddamned Amendola’s would win. He could not let that happen.

Dan could do as much research at home as at the office and nobody would question him. He spent the rest of the night bathed in the glow of his computer screen but in the end came up with nothing on F.B. Air.

Dan despised computers, the Internet, and all geek related activities. His father and grandfather had worked investigations the good old-fashioned way. Asking questions and forcing answers from informants. These days everything was electronic and computers could not be intimidated. Plenty of results came up when he typed in ‘F.B. Air’ but all of it was useless.

Find Bulgaria Air flights

FB 22 attack bomber and an endless list of Facebook links but nothing that could possibly relate to Sam or their case. By the time the sun had risen and the early morning rush of traffic had faded, Dan felt his brain turning to mush and decided to get some sleep.

Just as he lay down and closed his eyes, the phone rang. The lieutenant asking how he was doing, did he need anything? Would he like to talk to a grief counselor or the department psychologist? By the third question, Dan had gone into autopilot and said ‘no’ after every question.

Finally, the lieutenant put Dan on administrative leave, with pay, until Sam’s death was closed.

That’s fine, now I can spend all my time looking into this, he thought.

After the fourth call, a reporter just wanting to check a few facts, Dan hung up without saying a word and disconnected the phone so he could sleep.

5

WHEN darkness parted and Dan became aware again, the urge to gulp air was not as strong but his body was still immobile. The only thing he could do was examine his room. In a few minutes, the black skeletal hand reappeared on the black bag and slid it to one side. An answer to the odd texture of the hand came to him.

Surgical gloves. Whoever that is, he’s wearing surgical gloves.

Forgetting the hands, Dan stared at the face of his captor. He could imagine any number of people who might wish to do him harm, however this person was certainly not who Dan expected to see.

He was older, maybe in his late sixties or early seventies, slim, and balding. What hair he retained was thin and gray at the temples. The old man was absurdly skinny, which was what gave his hand the look of a skeleton. His face carried that death mask look also, cheek bones angular and sharp, but at the same time his skin had that healthy sundrenched Mediterranean tone.

The oddest part of all for Dan was that he knew this man. Well, not exactly knew him but he recognized the face from somewhere recently. The guy almost looked dead he was so skinny.

Dead? The morgue, that’s where I saw him!

Dan recalled the old man he almost knocked over when he shoved the door open too hard.

Hey I know you, what the hell are you doing here? Dan demanded, his voice sounded alarmingly weak and slurred but he could now speak in a whisper. The other man did not respond. He was sitting at the far side of the table reading something beyond Dan’s vision.

The man seemed completely uninterested in Dan for the moment, which was fine as Dan was still having difficulty focusing on the present properly.

His mind drifted back again to just after the lieutenant had placed him on leave. Dan remembered lying down to rest and when he woke, his mind was foggy but not quite like it was now...

When Dan woke the red display of his alarm clock read ten past four in the afternoon, on March twentieth. He felt like crap and the puzzle of F.B. Air still nagged at him. He only had a little more than eight hours before he needed to be wherever it was Sam had learned about and was no closer to figuring out where.

Their investigation of the Amendola family had turned up some interesting things, nothing solid they could indict with yet but both he and Sam felt they were getting closer.

The Amendola family was neither the largest nor the most powerful in the NY state area but in the last twenty years, they had gone from nothing more than street thugs to an organization. Every year they were growing stronger and bolder. Sam dug up some possible connections to Eastern Europe and Russia but the bulk of their business remained in New York State. If Sam uncovered something, Dan was betting it would have a local connection.

What he needed to do, he realized, was to look up business registrations for F.B. Air, without alerting the department.

I’ll bet I can get that at the library.

The idea turned out to be sound. However, once he was settled in he discovered even the sanctity of the library had been infected with computers. Electronic storage was the only means of research. Gone were the comforting spools of microfiche and dry papery smell of card catalogues. Trying to look up registrations for any company called F.B. Air, airlines, airways, air cargo, air transport, or any combination of those turned up no leads and only frustrated him. Dan noticed some young kids asking for help at one of the desks. He decided to try also.

Humm...F.B. Air, you say? Doesn’t ring any bells but let’s ask Stephen, he’s quite the aeronautics buff.

F.B. Air? Nope never heard of it, the other librarian answered when they had found him.

Dan’s heart sank. He was almost out of time and no closer to an answer.

Could you mean Floyd Bennett airfield? Stephen asked.

Dan immediately perked up.

Floyd Bennett? Where’s that? Dan asked gruffly, to which both librarians looked disapproving at his tone.

Well it doesn’t exist anymore, out in Brooklyn. An old air force field, it’s been abandoned for years.

Bingo! Dan felt sure he was finally on the right track.

Show me on a map, he demanded and added please, when he saw another look of disapproval on their faces.

There was no way the Amendola family were running flights out of there. After 9/11 no unregistered flight could enter or leave Manhattan Island without having the USAF intercept, but an abandoned airfield with unused hangars and buildings would be perfect for hiding all kinds of things from guns and drugs to prostitutes,

Maybe Eastern European or Russian prostitutes, he thought of the connection they had found.

Stephen pulled out a large map book and flipped a few pages. Then he turned the book around to face Dan. Sure enough, there it was, right at the end of Flatbush Ave.

How is it I’ve never heard of this place before? He stared at the map amazed.

The field covered a large area out in Brooklyn right down by the water. Dan had never worked or lived out that way but he should have heard of an abandoned airfield before.

And it’s no longer used you say? Dan confirmed.

Stephen screwed up his face, More or less. The NYPD uses it for their helicopter operations but it is a large airfield and they only use a tiny section. The rest is mostly unused.

Dan was stunned.

Could that be it? Did the Amendola’s have a connection in the NYPD and were using the helipad? Or, were they doing something right under our noses? This could be big.

Without a word of thanks to Stephen, he turned from the desk and left, heading home to consider his next move.

Only a few hours remained before the meeting and he had a large area to cover. Without drawing too much attention he had to get into the old airfield, figure out which spot was the correct one, and stake it out. He would have to wait until dark.

With him and Sam working together, they might have had a chance. Alone would be a shot in the dark but this was his best, his only opportunity. He would have to trust his instincts and be adaptable. There was no way he was going to call this in for backup. For one, his superiors would cut him out of the operation and for another, he would have to work under department regulations and he wanted no rules tonight.

Dan did not intend to make an arrest. The objective of tonight would be to learn what was going on out there and what was behind Sam’s death. The best-case scenario would be if he could get his hands on someone from the Amendola family and force him to say what had happened to Sam. He needed proof that his partner’s death had been staged.

On his kitchen table, he stripped down his department issued Glock, examining and cleaning every part of the gun. Checked to make sure the weapon was in tip-top shape and loaded several clips. He did the same to his .22 backup, which he always carried in an ankle holster.

Checking the time, Dan found the day had slipped away on him, 6:15pm already. The last twenty-four hours had been a rough ride and he felt that catching a couple hours sleep before setting out might be a good idea. He placed the guns and ammo on his bedside table, set an alarm for 8pm, and lay down.

6

DAN knew that falling asleep had been his tragic error. Clearly, whoever his captor was, snuck in while he slept and tied him up. This was one of the tighter spots he had been in before but the guy was old and weak looking. How hard could it be to overpower him and get free? Dan decided a little talk might give him a better gauge on the other man.

Hey buddy, you’re in a lot of trouble you know. My partner will be here any moment, he lied.

I hardly think so Detective McTeague. The man at the table did not look up.

His captor was calm and in charge despite his meek appearance but somehow his voice did not suit the face. Deep and melodious, a strong voice in a weak looking body. The words had been crisp and precise, no hint of any accent. Yet Dan could not help thinking the man sounded British, not because of any accent but because every vowel and consonant had been spoken precisely. Dan felt a chill run through him. He knew he was in deep trouble, this man was not who he appeared to be.

What do you want? Dan threw the challenge out in his toughest cop voice hoping to intimidate the other man but the threat sounded pathetic.

Not a thing from you detective. Thank you for inquiring about my wellbeing however.

The deep honey voice was steady and undisturbed.

Through the exchange, the man had not looked up from whatever he was reading. Dan took a moment to look around, hoping to find inspiration to get himself out of his present circumstances, nothing occurred to him.

What did you do to me? he asked trying to buy time and come up with a plan.

The man behind the suitcase looked up at Dan.

A mild, quick acting paralytic, you will not suffer any permanent damage. Not from that at any rate.

Dan did not understand what that meant but felt a threat was implied. He noticed the pen in the other man’s hand and it occurred to him that the other man was writing, not