Final Seconds Read online

  “I’ve contacted them, of course,” Buckner said. “Offered my unofficial help in a number of matters. Let’s just say they were unreceptive.”

  “They’re not in the personal security business,” Fahey said.

  “Until after something happens,” Buckner said. “Then the FBI gets off their ass and gets all over the case. You know how it is these days, FBI, CIA, ATF, all the organizations are working together now under Homeland Security, one big ball of wax. Better than when they never talked to each other.”

  “I hear you,” Harper said.

  Buckner went back to work on his laptop. Harper followed Fahey along the pool. One of the girls, who looked to be about eight, splashed Fahey’s shoe as he went by. He gave her a mock glare and she giggled delightedly. They passed through the archway.

  Another sonic boom sounded as they walked along the vast frontage of the house.

  2

  Alizard about a foot long stared at Harper from beneath a low palm frond, then retreated into cool shadow.

  “You’re gonna stay, aren’t you?” Fahey said, walking slightly ahead of Harper. “I’ll show you your room.”

  “I don’t think so, Jimmy. We’re flying out day after tomorrow and—”

  “Oh, you’ve got to stay. Breakfast around here is something. Starts off with fresh-squeezed orange juice from our own grove—”

  “Sorry.”

  “But Rod wants to talk to you. He’ll probably record you.”

  Harper could only shrug. He found Jimmy’s eagerness to please Buckner a little sad. Of course, he knew how attractive fame was, and how some people were content to bask in a celebrity’s reflected glory, but he would never have expected it of Jimmy Fahey.

  “Not a bad little dump, is it?” Fahey said, gesturing at the house. “We can go in, if you want. Or we can go to my place. Rod gave me a little house of my own to stay in, around back. He calls it little, but it’s bigger than the house I grew up in in Queens.”

  “This is some operation you’re running here, Jimmy,” Harper said. “Your people at the gatehouse seem to be on the ball.”

  Fahey looked over at him, gratified as always by his praise. “You don’t know the half of it. We got video cameras covering every inch of the perimeter fence. Twenty-four-hour patrols of the grounds. Rod says if I want heat sensors, motion detectors, anything at all, whatever the cost, all I have to do is ask.”

  “Does Mr. Buckner really need all this stuff?”

  Harper looked over at Fahey, but Fahey wouldn’t meet his eye.

  “He writes about dangerous people—the Iranians, the drug cartels, Hezbollah—”

  “You mean you’ve received threats?”

  “No, but—” Suddenly Fahey’s tanned, handsome face broke into the old, familiar grin. It was like a mask dropping. “The truth is, he’s in no danger. Sometimes Rod thinks he’s Buck Reilly of the CIA. In fact, most of the time he does. But if that’s what it takes to get him in the mood to write those bestsellers, who’s gonna knock it?”

  Harper stopped and turned to face him. “Wait a minute. You mean, you have no threats to deal with?”

  Fahey frowned. “Sure we got problems. Tourists, press photographers, autograph hounds—”

  “And for that kind of nuisance you’re running a state-of-the-art security system?”

  “That’s what Mr. Buckner’s paying me to do,” said Fahey stonily.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Jimmy. You should be a cop, not a rich man’s toy.”

  The words leapt out, unplanned, but as soon as he said them, Harper realized this was what he’d come here to say.

  Fahey’s face was flushed under the tan, but he shook his head and kept his voice down, pretending not to be strongly affected. “You’re gonna have to go somewhere else to sell that kind of stuff, Will. I’ve fallen into a sweet deal here. You have no idea what a great life a person like Rod lives. I’ve been with him to London, Hong Kong, Rio. First class all the way. I’ve met George Bush and Michelle Pfeiffer. And of course the admirals from the base down the road are over here all the time. They’d do anything for Rod. I’ve had a ride in an F-16. I’ve landed on an aircraft carrier.”

  “Jimmy, why the hell did you quit the NYPD?”

  Fahey didn’t answer. He put his hands on his hips and bowed his head and sighed. “I can’t believe it. You came here to tell me to give up all this and go back to the NYPD?”

  “Not necessarily,” Harper said. “You could join a department down here, if you want.”

  “Give it up, Will, you’re wasting your time.”

  “You’re a good cop, Jimmy. A hell of an EOD expert. Leave this kind of job for when you retire.”

  Fahey was clearly struggling with his temper now. He looked away and said in a taut voice, “I’m not asking for your advice anymore.”

  “You should have asked for it before you quit the Department. I’d have told you to stay.”

  Fahey said nothing.

  “The people who were criticizing you didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”

  Fahey held up a hand to stop him. Harper fell silent. He was struck by the pain on the younger man’s face. “Cut it out. I know you were making excuses for me from your hospital bed. Nobody believed ’em.”

  “I wasn’t making excuses. I put the facts in my report, that’s all. I told the truth. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Abruptly, Fahey swung around and started to stride away. But he took only two steps and turned back. He whipped off his sunglasses. “I should’ve got to you quicker. I had the goddamn suppression blanket in my arms and all I had to do was run. You wouldn’t have got hurt.”

  Harper stepped right up to him and looked him in the eye. As forcefully as he could, he said, “There’s no way of knowing that. The explosive was unstable. Maybe my moving it set it off. Maybe the timing had nothing to do with it. We’ll never know. So quit thinking about it.”

  Fahey’s face twisted up. He started shaking his head again. “Quit thinking about it. What kind of sick joke is that? Can you stop thinking about it?”

  Harper hesitated. Then he said, “No. And sometimes I get mad at you, Jimmy. But more often I get mad at myself. Because if I was gonna pick up a goddamn stick of gelignite that was gonna go off, why the hell couldn’t I have picked it up in my left hand?”

  Fahey stood frowning and blinking at him for a moment. “But that doesn’t make any sense, Will, blaming yourself for that.”

  “Makes about as much sense as what you’ve been blaming yourself for.”

  They stood with their gazes locked for another long moment. Then Fahey turned and started to walk slowly, his hands in his pockets, his expression abstracted. Harper walked beside him, but didn’t speak. He’d said his piece and now it was time for Jimmy to think.

  Another sonic boom rumbled off beyond the clouds. They crunched over the crushed seashell drive and came to the lawn. Sprinklers were throwing long whips of water across it. An egret stepped out of their way, blasé as a New York pigeon. Harper watched the elegant white bird with pleasure. He’d come to try to lift a weight from Fahey’s shoulders; he hadn’t expected to feel such a sense of relief himself.

  They’d come to Rod Buckner’s SAM missile and flagpole. Old Glory was snapping in the breeze. Abruptly Fahey stopped and faced Harper.

  “Say, Will. How do you shake hands now?”

  Harper smiled. “Same as before.”

  He held out his right hand. Fahey looked at it for a long moment, then took it. He gripped it tightly.

  “Thanks for coming, Will.”

  “You going to take my advice?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’ll think about it.”

  “You’d really miss those admirals that much?”

  “Nah. I’d miss Michelle Pfeiffer.” Fahey looked back at the house. “I don’t suppose you’re much interested in a tour of Rod’s manse. You want to go down to the beach?”

  “Never mind, Jimmy. I know you have to get
back to work.”

  “Actually I’m heading for the gatehouse. Want to ride along?”

  They walked back to the front of the house, where a golf cart was parked. As they got in, Fahey said, “You look good, Will. I like the face-fuzz.”

  Harper touched his beard. It had come in dense and even, but all gray, which had surprised him. His hair was still mostly dark. “Perk of retirement.”

  “Is that okay? I mean—do you mind being retired?”

  Harper hesitated. Before, he’d felt he owed Fahey honesty. Now, hearing the tension in the young man’s voice, he knew he owed him a lie. Forcing a grin, he said, “You kidding? Retired at age forty-seven with full disability and pension? It’s every cop’s dream.”

  Fahey looked at him, then back at the road. If he doubted Harper, he decided not to say so. “I’ll bet it’s a sweet life. Plus you’ve got Laura. How is she?”

  “Busy as always. She sends her regards.”

  For the rest of the drive they talked as easily as they used to in the old days. Fahey explained how different the Florida panhandle was from the rest of the state and how much he liked it.

  As they drew to a stop under the overhanging roof of the gatehouse, the tall, grim guard whom Harper had spoken to before appeared in the doorway. He had a long, flat package in his hands.

  “What is it, Kent?” Fahey said.

  “Sorry, sir. Heard the cart and thought it was Mr. Buckner.”

  Fahey frowned. “What’ve you got there?”

  “Latest edition of Jane’s Guide to the Ships of the World’s Navies. Mr. Buckner’s coming down for it.”

  “He’s coming down for it,” Fahey said to Harper, rolling his eyes. “Rod’s a stickler for security procedures unless they get in his way. Then he says the hell with them.”

  Kent’s eyes widened in surprise. Harper guessed Fahey didn’t usually talk about his employer in that tone. Harper took it as a hopeful sign. Maybe Fahey was already thinking he wasn’t long for this job.

  “You know the drill, Kent,” Fahey went on. “We examine all parcels and then we take them up to the house. Mr. Buckner does not come down for them.”

  “Sure, but—”

  Fahey walked over and took the package. “Has this been fluoroscoped yet?”

  “Sure. I mean, Alvarez must have done it. It was on the counter with the other packages.”

  “Who called Mr. Buckner and told him it had arrived?”

  “Not me,” said Kent, who by now was stiff and red-faced. “But everybody knows Mr. Buckner’s always in a hurry to get the latest Jane’s.”

  Fahey gave the package back. “Take it in and fluoroscope it.”

  “But Mr. Buckner’ll be here any minute.”

  “I’ll deal with him. Go.”

  Kent went back into the gatehouse. Fahey turned to Harper. “Sorry, Will, but you better leave. Rod’s gonna be pissed. And rich people don’t like to have strangers around when they cuss out the servants.”

  Harper smiled. Fahey’s discontent sounded sweet to his ears. He’d be willing to bet that by the end of the week the kid would be writing off for police department applications. He said, “Stay in touch, Jimmy.”

  “I will.”

  They shook hands again, and Harper crossed the drive to his car and got in. As he pulled away he waved out the window, but Fahey didn’t see. A green Land Rover was drawing to a stop under the overhang, and Rod Buckner was leaning out.

  Harper went through the gates and turned onto the road.

  He was just shifting into third gear when there was a flash behind him. The reflection off his driving mirrors was as dazzling as lightning at night. The roar of the explosion deafened him. Suddenly there was cloth against his face and he could see nothing. Instinctively he stamped on the brakes. The shock wave had rocked the car so violently the air bag had deployed. Even as he realized this the bag emptied, collapsing onto his knees.

  The car had come to a stop now. His ears were ringing painfully. Otherwise, he seemed to be all right. The car’s windshield was gone, blown out completely, along with the other windows. Blue-tinted nuggets of safety glass filled his lap and the passenger seat. Something hit the roof over his head. Harper couldn’t hear the impact—couldn’t hear anything—but it was hard enough to rock the whole car again. Something else struck the hood and bounced off, leaving a big dent. It was a roof tile. They were coming down like giant hailstones. There was nothing to do except fold his arms over his head and hope.

  Harper was lucky. None of the tiles fell through the windshield frame. He fumbled the door open and stood shakily, looking around. Roof tiles were scattered all over the road. A car coming the other way was slowing to a halt. The driver gaped at him.

  Turning, Harper looked at the gatehouse. Flames were licking through the windows, but the walls still stood. The roof was gone. What hadn’t blown out over the road must have collapsed into the building. The sloping projection that had formed the overhang had fallen to the driveway. In the smoke and rubble there was no sign of the Land Rover. It had been buried in debris. Along with Rod Buckner, Harper realized numbly.

  Along with Jimmy Fahey.

  3

  Rodman’s Neck, in the northeast corner of the Bronx, was a peninsula jutting into Long Island Sound. It was as out-of-the-way a place as you could find in the crowded city, and this was where New York cops came to perform tasks that called for some room: small arms practice, dog training, and bomb disassembly.

  Harper hadn’t been back to Rodman’s Neck since he’d left the Department. It hadn’t changed. It still struck him as the quietest place in New York. There was the popping of small-arms fire on the range, and the barking of dogs in their pens, but the wind seemed to lift these sharp little noises and blow them out to sea.

  He walked along the road. Ahead of him was a guard kiosk and a high chain-link fence. Beyond it he could see only a plain of wintry tan grass and gray sky. This was the way to the bunkers. Many times Harper had ridden out there in a bomb wagon, with a bomb he’d disarmed somewhere or other in the five boroughs and was taking to the bunkers for disassembly. On bleak days like this, he used to feel as if he were going to the end of the earth. He’d wonder if he’d be coming back.

  Thinking about it now, Harper didn’t mind one bit that he’d never have to go out there again, never have to take apart another bomb.

  But his mood changed as soon as he turned and started walking back to the complex of aging Quonset huts that housed the Bomb Squad. He’d put in eighteen years on the Squad and he missed this place. Regret about his premature retirement stabbed at him. He’d liked teaching, and he’d liked advising the detectives on the Homicide and Terrorism squads about how to catch bombers. But that was all over now.

  Entering the building, he glanced at the bulletin board. There was the usual collection of official Department and ATF notices, mixed up with announcements of birthday booze-ups and used cars for sale. And there was the usual caustic smell of coffee gradually burning down to bitter sludge. Harper thought of several doors he’d like to knock on. But he marched straight past them to the end of the corridor. He was going to the office of a man he’d disliked more than anyone else on the Squad—its commander, Captain Nathan Brand.

  Harper had telephoned Brand’s secretary for an appointment. He’d been surprised when she’d told him Brand could see him right away, and at Rodman’s Neck. When he wasn’t attending antiterrorism seminars in European capitals, Brand could usually be found at the Bomb Squad’s other office, in the Sixth Precinct. The Sixth was located in Greenwich Village, which put Brand within steps of a number of good restaurants, and within a mile of the top brass at One Police Plaza. As Harper knocked on the door, he reminded himself not to get carried away by his contempt for Brand. The captain was good at what he did. He’d certainly been able to outmaneuver Harper, as he had eight years ago, when Harper should have been the one promoted to lieutenant. Brand had gotten the advancement instead, and Harper was sure he’d do
ne it by spreading a rumor about Harper’s involvement with a prostitute who was a police informer for Narcotics. There had been a lingering animosity between the two men ever since.

  “Come in,” Brand said, rising from behind his desk, smiling. He was a lean man in his fifties, with a gleaming bald dome and bushy white sideburns. “Hello, Harper, you’re looking good. Retirement agrees with you.”

  “Thanks for seeing me, Captain. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, not too bad. The Fortunato case is a problem, though. I suppose you’ve read about it.”

  Harper nodded. Domenic Fortunato, a six-year-old Queens boy, had been killed in a fire in his parents’ garage. He’d been playing with fireworks. His father, a sergeant in the NYPD, had obtained them illegally. The rumor was that they had come from here on Rodman’s Neck.

  Harper asked Brand, “Do they know for sure yet whether the fireworks came out of our dump?”

  “No. But the Internal Affairs guys keep bugging me.”

  “I guess you can’t blame them. The dump is the most likely source.” Selling fireworks to individuals is illegal in New York City, but people were always trying to do it. When they got caught, the confiscated fireworks ended up in a dump on Rodman’s Neck. At any time there were crates of firecrackers and Roman candles in the dump. From time to time, things disappeared. Policemen and their friends and relatives liked flashes and bangs as much as anybody. Harper’d never had anything to do with it. He’d seen too many kids lose eyes or fingers. He knew how quickly explosives could become unstable in storage.

  “No,” said Brand, “you can’t blame IAD. But you don’t like to have them around.”

  He continued to stand and look at Harper. But he had his reading glasses in one hand while the other was in his pocket. He wasn’t going to shake hands. Harper’d noticed before that Brand was squeamish about his injury, and wondered if he could somehow turn that to his advantage. With Brand, you had to think that way.

  “Matter of fact, Harper, I was expecting you to call,” Brand said.

  “You know why I’m here?”