The Last Templar - Страница 21

"What names?"

Branko saw a sudden flare of anger cross the man's face as he reached out and grabbed his left hand. He didn't go for a finger this time. He also grabbed his arm and, with a sudden twist of ferocious intensity, snapped Branko's wrist. The excruciating pain shot straight through him, making

him momentarily black out, his howl echoing above the furor of the frenzied horses.

He looked up to see the man standing impassively, watching him through the thickening smoke.

"Names of friends. Friends you visit museums with."

Branko coughed, peering desperately over the man's shoulder to where flames were now cracking as the timber rails caught fire. He couldn't string this out. "Gus," he blurted out frantically. "Gus and Mitch. That's all I know."

"Mitch who?"

Branko couldn't say the words fast enough. "Adeson. Mitch Adeson. That's all I know, I swear to God."

"Mitch Adeson."

"That's it. That's how it was done. It's like a chain of command, blind cells, you know?"

The man studied him carefully, then nodded. "I know."

Thank God, the sick fuck believes me. "Now get me out of these fucking cuffs," he pleaded. "Come on!"

"Where can I find this Mitch Adeson?" the man asked. He listened intently as Branko spluttered out what he knew, then nodded and said, "There was a fourth man with you. Describe him to me."

"I didn't see his face, he had a ski mask on, he never took the damn tiling off. He had it on under die armor and the rest of that shit."

Again the man nodded. "Okay," he murmured. Then he turned and walked away.

"Hey! HEY!" Branko yelled after him.

But the man didn't turn. He proceeded down toward the far end, pausing only to pick up die sack containing the stolen relics from the museum.

"You can't leave me here," Branko pleaded.

Then he realized what the man was doing. He was releasing die last of the horses.

Branko screamed as the panic-stricken dappled filly led the other two horses out of their stalls. And then they were thundering toward him at a headlong gallop, eyes wild, nostrils flared, die flames behind them making them look like they were coming at him straight out of the mouth of hell.

And he was strapped across their only escape route.

Chapter 25

"Now tell me more about this chick."

Reilly groaned at the question. From the moment he'd mentioned his conversation with Tess to his partner, he knew this was a conversation he'd have to suffer. "This chick?" he deadpanned.

He and Aparo were headed east, through the choked streets of Queens. Apart from its color, the Pontiac they had been allocated was a virtual clone of the Chrysler they had wrecked in nailing Gus Waldron. Aparo made a face as he edged the car cautiously around a stationary truck with a steaming radiator, its driver uselessly kicking a front tire.

"I'm sorry. Miss Chaykin."

Reilly did his best not to appear nonplussed. "There's nothing to tell."

"Come on." Aparo knew his partner better than anyone; not that he had much competition. Reilly wasn't one to let people get close.

"What do you want from me?"

"She approached you. Out of the blue. Just like that, she remembered you from the museum, from a quick eyeball from all the way across the hall, after everything she'd been through that night?"

"What can I say?" Reilly kept his eyes firmly on the road. "The lady's got a photographic memory."

"Photographic memory, my ass," Aparo scoffed. "This babe's on the prowl."

Reilly rolled his eyes. "She's not on the prowl. She's just. . . curious."

So she's got a photographic memory and an inquisitive mind. And she's a total hottie. But you didn't notice any of that. Nah. You were only thinking about the case."

Reilly shrugged. "Okay, so maybe I noticed a little."

"Thank God. He breathes. He's alive," he mocked in a tone straight out of an old Frankenstein movie. "You do know she's single, right?"

"I kind of noticed." Reilly had tried not to make a big deal out of it. Earlier that morning, he had read the statement Tess had given to Amelia Gaines at the museum, just before he had asked a research analyst to look for any reference to the Knights Templar in the bulging files they kept on extremist groups around the country.

Aparo eyed him. He knew him so well, he could read him at fifty paces. And he loved needling him. "I don't know, but a babe like that makes a pass at me, I'd be all over her in a heartbeat."

"You're married."

"Yeah, well, I can dream, can't I?"

They were off the Long Island Expressway now and would soon be out of Queens. The address on Petrovic's file was out of date, but his old landlord there said he knew where Petrovic worked. The stables were somewhere around here and Reilly checked a street map, gave Aparo directions. Then, knowing that his partner would never let go, he reluctantly picked up the thread. "Besides, she didn't make a pass," he protested.

"Sure she didn't. She's just a concerned citizen looking out for the rest of us." He shook his head. "I don't get it. You're single. You're not butt-ugly. You don't have any offensive aromas I'm aware of.

And yet. . . See, we married guys, we need buddies like you, we need to live vicariously through you and, well, you're really letting the team down."

Reilly couldn't argue with that. It had been a long while since he'd spent any meaningful time with a woman and, even though he wouldn't dream of mentioning it to his partner, he couldn't begin to deny the attraction he had felt toward Tess. But he knew that, like Amelia Gaines, Tess Chaykin didn't seem to be the kind of woman who would take kindly to being treated casually, which was just as well, given that he wasn't exactly the casual kind either. And therein lay the paradox at the heart of his loneliness. If a woman didn't completely enthrall him, he wasn't interested. And if she had that special quality that got him going, what happened to his father would soon become an issue for him; his fears would inevitably kick in at some point and deny the relationship any chance of blossoming.

You've got to let go. It doesn't have to happen to you too.

Looking ahead now, Reilly spotted some smoke and, with it, the flashing lights of two fire trucks.

He glanced at Aparo and reached for the flasher, slapping it on the roof as his partner hit the siren and floored the gas pedal. They were soon weaving in and out of traffic, barreling their way through the nose-to-tail barrage of cars and trucks.

***

As they turned into the stable's parking lot, Reilly could see that in addition to the fire trucks, there were a couple of black-and-whites and an ambulance. Parking well clear of the exit, they left the car and walked over toward the scene, badging up as they went. One of the uniforms started toward them, arms spread wide, then saw the badges and let them through.

Although the fire was almost out, the smell of burned wood hung heavily in the air. Three or four people, stable staff by the look of them, were stumbling around in the drifting smoke, trying to control frightened horses amid the tangle of fire hoses that snaked across the ground. A man in a charcoal raincoat was standing with a grim expression on his face, watching them approach.

Reilly introduced himself and Aparo. The cop, a sergeant by the name of Milligan, didn't look thrilled. "Don't tell me," he said sardonically, "you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

Reilly nodded toward the charred stables. "Branko Petrovic," he simply stated.

Milligan shrugged and led the way into the stable, where a pair of paramedics were crouched over a body. Propped nearby was a lightweight stretcher.

Reilly glanced at it, then at Milligan who got the message: this had to be treated as a crime scene with a suspicious death. "What do we know?" he asked.

Milligan leaned over the body that lay blackened and crumpled amid splintered pieces of wood. "You tell me. I thought this was gonna be an easy one."

Reilly looked over Milligan's shoulder. It was hard to tell what was smoke-blackened flesh from what was blood mixed with soot and water from the fire hoses. Another gruesome detail that added to the macabre setting was that the man's left arm was lying there by the body, no longer attached to the torso. Reilly frowned. Whatever it was, the mess that had once been Branko Petrovic was barely identifiable as human.

"How can you be so sure it's him?" he asked.

Milligan reached down, pointing a finger at the side of the dead man's forehead. Reilly could see an indentation that, even among all the other damage, was clearly not recent. "He got clipped by a horse, years ago. On the force. Used to be proud of it, surviving a kick in the head."

As Reilly crouched down for a closer look, he noticed one of the paramedics, a dark-haired girl in her twenties. She seemed eager to chime in. Reilly met her eyes for a moment. "You got something for us?"

She smiled and held up Petrovic's left wrist. "Don't tell the M.E. I jumped the gun on this, but someone didn't like this guy. His other wrist's scorched through, but see this one here?" She was pointing at the detached arm. "The contusions on it are still visible. He was tied up." She pointed up at the doorway. "I'd say he had one hand tied to each side. Like he was crucified across the doorway."

Aparo grimaced at the imagery. "You mean someone let the horses stampede over him?"