Gideon’s Sword

Brown considered this, and then spoke. “On a few rare occasions, an ME has had to retrieve human remains. It’s always a huge ordeal, lots of paperwork, taking weeks. A court order is required. You’ve got to understand, Hart Island is completely off-limits to all visitors, period. The burial work is done by prisoners from Rikers Island.”

“But if they can retrieve a limb, how do they know where it’s buried? Do they keep track?”

“I believe the numbered boxes are stacked in their trenches in order. When they fill a trench, they place a cement marker at the end and start a new one.”

“How would I find out the number and location? Do you have that information?”

Brown took the printout from the med tech and consulted it, her brow wrinkling. “The files, here, have the number.”

Gideon extended a hand. “May I?”

She handed Gideon the printout and, fumbling a pen out of his pocket, he wrote down the indicated number: 695–998 MSH.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the ME asked. “I’m overdue in the autopsy room, if you don’t mind. We’re a little short-staffed at the moment.”

“No, this is all I need. Thank you, Dr. Brown. I can find my way out.”

“I'll have to escort you as far as the waiting room.”

Gideon followed her solid and reassuring form into the corridor and past the autopsy room, which was still filled with activity. At least a dozen homicide detectives and police officers remained in the room; others had moved out into the corridor, almost blocking it. Even as they pushed through, Gideon could see that members of the press had now gathered outside the double doors, shouting and pushing.

“Must be a big deal, that homicide,” said Gideon.

“It was particularly brutal,” said Brown, tersely. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing through the doors and trying to get past an especially aggressive camera crew. As soon as the press saw her doctor’s scrubs, they surged forward with a chorus of shouted questions.

“Good luck.” She retreated behind the doors as the crowd peppered her with questions.

“Suspects,” someone shouted. “Are there any suspects?”

“Where in the church was the body hidden?”

Gideon tried pushing through the crowd as they continued to yell questions at the closed doors.

“…any witnesses or leads?”

He elbowed a burly soundman aside and made for the exit.

“…true that the throat was ripped out again, like the last one in Chinatown?”

Gideon halted abruptly, turned. Who had said that? He looked about the seething crowd and grabbed a reporter, hanging at the fringes of the crowd, tape recorder in hand.

“This murder — what was that I heard about the throat ripped out?”

“You’re a witness?” the man asked, suddenly eager, sticking out his hand. “Bronwick of the Post.”

Gideon stared at the man, his yellow ferret-teeth pushing out his lower lip. He had an incongruous Cockney accent.

“Maybe. Answer my question: was the throat ripped out?”

“Yes, it was. An ’orrible murder. Up at Saint Bart’s, they found her body hidden beneath some pews. Almost decapitated she was, just like the chap in Chinatown. Now then: your name, sir? And your co

Gideon gripped him harder. “Did you say her? The victim was a woman? What was her name?” He felt a sudden indefinable, hideous sensation, like insects eating at his nerves.

“A girl, yes, in her late twenties—”

“Her name!” He shook the man. “I need her name!”

“Take it easy, guv. Her name was Marilyn…” He consulted his notes. “Marilyn Creedy. Now I’d like to hear what you know, sir.”

Gideon pushed the man away and ran. And kept ru

57

Dawn broke over the Central Bronx, a dirty yellow stain that crept into the sky above Mosholu Parkway. Gideon Crew stared out the scarred window of the Lexington Avenue Express, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. He had been on the train for hours, going from its southern terminus at Utica Avenue in Queens to its northern terminus at Woodlawn in the Bronx and back, traveling beyond emotion into the gray territory of mere existence.

It had been years since he’d last cried, but he had found himself crying — with fury, with sorrow, with his own stupidity and selfishness.

But now he was beyond that. He had come through the other side and — slowly but surely — his mind had begun to function again.

He understood certain facts. Nodding Crane had murdered Orchid, then hidden her body so it would not be found immediately, giving him time for a clean getaway. He’d killed her for two reasons. First, there was the possibility she knew something and therefore had to die. But more important, Nodding Crane had murdered her as a way to flush him out. In this Nodding Crane had figured him exactly right: the killing would flush him out. Because now, Nodding Crane had to die. There was no other way. Gideon had dragged Orchid into this horror; he owed it to her.

And no doubt that was exactly what Nodding Crane expected.

Over the long hours on the train, Gideon had worked out the details. What they both sought was buried on Hart Island. Both would go to Hart Island to get it. Only one would return. But Gideon was not crazy, and he knew he needed to stack the deck in his favor. And this was where Mindy Jackson came in. She had proven herself; she would be his secret weapon.

He took out his cell phone and dialed her number.

To his great surprise, she actually answered. “Gideon?”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Downtown. No luck yet on the woman. How about you? Found anything?”

“Everything.”

A silence. Then a cool, “Tell me.”

“First, I want your promise. We handle this my way.”

A pause. “Okay. Fine. Your way.”

“Wu wasn’t smuggling the plans to a weapon—​he was carrying a piece of wire embedded in his leg. This wire is of a revolutionary new material. The numbers are the formula, the recipe for it. Put the two together and you’ve got it all.”

“What kind of new material?”

“A room-temperature superconductor.” He explained the significance of it and was impressed at how quickly she understood the ramifications — and the dangers.

“The legs,” he went on, “were amputated after the accident. They’re buried in a mass grave on Hart Island — New York’s potter’s field. I’ve got a few things to take care of, and then tonight I’m going to Hart Island to dig up those legs.”

“How are you going to find them?”

“Body parts are tagged and buried in numbered boxes, in sequence. I’ve got the number. We might have to do a little…sorting. I’ve got it all worked out. There’s a place where you can rent outboard skiffs on City Island, past the bridge on the right. Murphy’s Bait and Tackle. Meet me there at ten PM.”

“How far offshore is this island?”

“About a mile northeast of City Island, in the middle of Long Island Sound opposite Sands Point. Bring a sniper rifle.”

“This is stupendous. How did you—?”

He interrupted her. “Nodding Crane will be there.”

“Oh. Jesus.”

“Remember the agreement. We run this my way. No CIA army descending on the island and scaring Nodding Crane off. Just you and me.”

He snapped the phone shut. Then he collected a piece of trash lying on the floor of the subway car and began to write on it.

Nodding Crane sat across the street from Saint Bart’s, strumming his battered guitar. The police had come and gone, the barriers had been taken down, the cleaning crews had fixed the church. Everything had returned to normal. It was a beautiful morning, just a few fluffy clouds scudding across the field of blue. Now all he had to do was wait.

I wants my lover, come and drive my fever away

He saw Crew come up from 49th Street, going against the crowds of commuters, and turn the corner onto Park. Right on time. Nodding Crane took no little satisfaction in seeing that the man looked like death warmed over: haggard, disheveled, his eyes two pools of shadow. He crossed Park Avenue and walked directly up to where Nodding Crane had laid his open guitar case collecting tips. Nodding Crane kept playing, his voice soft. Crew stood over him, on the far side of the case, as he continued to strum and sing. The morning crowds streamed past; he knew Crew wouldn’t do anything rash.