Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(50)

“Why the unconnected strikes—two people at the ice rink, four at Times Square? Cover?”

“It looks that way.” But Eve thought it was more, even more callous than that. “We believe the suspects have additional targets, and will move on them quickly. If they follow pattern, they’ll choose a public area, somewhere the target routinely goes or lives or works. And they will take more lives.”

“You want me to get their faces out there. When am I cleared for it?”

“Now. Their names and faces, as soon as you can. The other details, I need twenty minutes. The off-the-record stays that way until I clear it. That gives you a leg up on the rest of the media. That leg up comes with a price.”

“Name it.”

“Put up Susann Mackie, Peabody. I want this face, too. I want Mackie to see it every time he turns to the screen. I want him to hear her name, to revisit her life and death.”

“You want to break him.”

Eyes flat, Eve set the empty mug down. “I will break him. One more. The lawyer Mackie hired—he’s a potential target, but I’ve got no name. You could dig there, too.”

“I’ll put some people on it.”

“You hit anyone with these initials—JR or MJ—you let me know right away. Right away, Nadine.”

“Done. How are you going to break her?”

“I’m working on it. We have to move.”

“So do I.”

“Swank digs, Nadine,” Eve commented.

Nadine smiled. “Thanks. I wanted swank, and they’re going to be swankier when I’m done.”

As Eve turned to go, Nadine snatched up her ’link. Eve heard her say: “Put me through to Lloyd now. I don’t give a hot fuck what he’s doing. I said now!”

When they stepped into the elevator again, Eve took a breath. “Peabody, have the witnesses to Susann Mackie’s accident brought in. None of their initials were on the list, but we won’t risk it. And I want Zoe Younger in Interview. We’ll see what Baxter and Trueheart got from her, but I need this round.”

She checked the time. And she wondered where Mackie and his murderous offspring would be when they saw their own faces on screen.

—

They were in the converted loft Mackie had rented shortly before Thanksgiving, where he’d begun moving during the kickoff of the holiday season.

He’d bought some furniture—cheap, serviceable—and though it stung to pay rent on two apartments, he felt it worth the expense. Just as it stung to leave some money in his old bank account, under a name he no longer used.

He hoped to be able to clear out that account, but if not, again, it was worth the expense.

If things went well—Plan A—he and Will would be on their way to Alaska within the week, where they could live off the land quietly and remotely.

Where they could hunt, where they could build a home, a life.

Zoe would sic the dogs on them, of course. He wouldn’t blame her for it. But they’d leave no scent, no trail, and for a few months, Will would be William Black, age sixteen, the son of John Black, a retired insurance adjuster from New Mexico. A widower who was homeschooling his only son.

They’d move again, inside Alaska, and become father and daughter again. And, as they did here in the loft, they would keep to themselves. He’d find peace in Alaska. He believed it, had to believe it. No more night terrors, night sweats. He’d ease himself off the funk, off the booze. His hands would stop shaking, his mind and eyesight would clear.

Susann and the son he’d longed for would be avenged. Justice well served by the daughter who gave him pride and purpose. And one day, when Will was old enough, he could leave her, secure in the knowledge that his only child could make her own way.

He could leave her to join Susann and the son they’d named Gabriel.

Thinking of them he began to drift away, into the comfort of imagining Susann in a white dress, sitting under a big, arching tree on a gentle green hill, with the baby in her arms.

There was a little farmhouse nearby, yellow with blue shutters, a white fence, a garden in bloom.

Their dream house, one they’d built in their dreams and conversations, the house in the country they’d dreamed of having one day.

She waited for him there, with the baby in her arms, and a brown puppy sleeping by her side.

He needed to see her there, her and his son. Under the big tree, in sunlight. At night she screamed for him in the dark, screamed his name, and the baby screamed with her.

But now she smiled, content to wait until he climbed the hill and sat beside her.

“Dad! Dad!”

He shot awake, reaching for the weapon at his hip.

In the gloomy light of the loft he saw Will standing in front of the short sofa, staring at the wall screen. She’d been cleaning her weapon, he noted, pleased to see the rifle on the table in front of her.

Still, the snap in her tone brought him to his feet, brought back the former soldier inside him. “Do we have a breach?”

“They’ve got our names, our faces.”

He stepped over to stand with her, to listen to the breaking story.

His last official ID photo, and Willow’s, filled the screen while the reporter’s voice sounded over them.

“To repeat, police have identified two suspects in the Wollman Rink and Times Square attacks in which seven people, including a police officer, were killed and more than fifty people were injured. Police are looking for Reginald Mackie, a former Tactical officer with the NYPSD, and his fifteen-year-old daughter, Willow Mackie.”