Read Online The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.F. Bright
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crossing the Rubicon moment is hard to resist. “Why?”
A longer pause. “It would be nice.”
“OK.” Maybe he’d have a closer look later, if he had time.
The Peregrine came to a hover directly above 7301 Farragut Place, a well maintained mid-sized apartment tower only a hundred or so years old. It had one of the most magnificent views of Manhattan possible, perched on the New Jersey Palisades overlooking the Hudson. He marked a spot on the parking lot with a laser-tag and let the auto-pilot complete the landing while he gathered himself.
He got out and took a quick account of the people milling around the entrance trying not to look curious. As he approached, two large men with machine pistols emerged. He gave them a calm but assertive nod. They smiled respectfully and opened the door.
MacIan nodded his thanks. “The Gagers?”
“Twenty-four-F,” said the other guard. “But I don’t think he’s home. Haven’t seen him for a while.”
MacIan showed them the wallet.
“Oh, I see. His daughter’s up there. Saw her this morning.”
MacIan entered the lobby, a typical minimalist common space, and walked up to a doorman behind a tall reception desk stacked with packages.
“Sir?” the doorman said.
“Gagers.”
“I’ll see if they’re in.”
The doorman poked the button marked 24F on an old-fashioned wall mounted intercom and put the clunky plastic handset to his ear. “Someone’s here to see you. Um hmm. The National Police. Um hum, OK.”
MacIan waited for the condo protocol to play out.
“Go right on up, sir,” said the doorman, pointing to the elevator.
MacIan rode the elevator up, confronting the emotional potential of what he was about to do: tell Arthur’s daughter that her father was dead. An involuntary shudder gritted his teeth and his stomach clenched.
The door to 24F was standing open when he got off the elevator, a young woman in the doorway. MacIan tried to smile. “Mrs. Gager?”
“No,” said the woman. “I’m Arthur’s daughter.” She backed into her apartment, extending her hand. “I’m Camille. Camille Gager.”
MacIan took her tiny hand in his huge paw. It was cold and he could feel her strength draining as she waited to hear what she already knew. “Trooper MacIan, NPF,” he said, pulling the wallet from his inside coat pocket.
She stared at it for a moment, as though it were from a bad dream, then her eyes filled with tears. She reached for it, but at the last second pulled her hand away. “I bought that for him.” She touched the wallet with a little pat, but didn’t take it. “Fiftieth birthday.” She was falling under an ominous spell. “Are you sure, or is it just the wallet?” Her color came back to half a skin-tone, and she leaned hopefully in MacIan’s direction.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Body’s back in Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania? He was looking for someone. A Harbinger Corporation guy. But Pennsylvania?”
MacIan’s ears perked up. Harbinger? He knew Harbinger. As a kid, he’d had a game console and a stack of first-person shooters, all from Harbinger. “Look, ah, maybe this isn’t the time,” he stammered. “I can come back . . .”
“No. This has been coming for a long time. It’s just — now it’s real.” She made a ghostly motion for MacIan to sit on the couch. “Give me a minute.” She raised a finger and backpedaled down a long hallway.
He started to sit, but the Manhattan skyline stopped him. He tip-toed to the floor-length windows lining the east side of the entire building. The sun felt warm on his face, despite the snow down on the road running along the edge of the Palisade. He felt shamefully giddy, considering the morbid circumstances, as he gazed out over the Hudson’s liquid blur at the most spectacularly contemptible place on earth.
An anger he thought he’d quelled coursed through his whole body. The moment he’d stepped into the elevator, his emotional igloo had started to thaw. He
A longer pause. “It would be nice.”
“OK.” Maybe he’d have a closer look later, if he had time.
The Peregrine came to a hover directly above 7301 Farragut Place, a well maintained mid-sized apartment tower only a hundred or so years old. It had one of the most magnificent views of Manhattan possible, perched on the New Jersey Palisades overlooking the Hudson. He marked a spot on the parking lot with a laser-tag and let the auto-pilot complete the landing while he gathered himself.
He got out and took a quick account of the people milling around the entrance trying not to look curious. As he approached, two large men with machine pistols emerged. He gave them a calm but assertive nod. They smiled respectfully and opened the door.
MacIan nodded his thanks. “The Gagers?”
“Twenty-four-F,” said the other guard. “But I don’t think he’s home. Haven’t seen him for a while.”
MacIan showed them the wallet.
“Oh, I see. His daughter’s up there. Saw her this morning.”
MacIan entered the lobby, a typical minimalist common space, and walked up to a doorman behind a tall reception desk stacked with packages.
“Sir?” the doorman said.
“Gagers.”
“I’ll see if they’re in.”
The doorman poked the button marked 24F on an old-fashioned wall mounted intercom and put the clunky plastic handset to his ear. “Someone’s here to see you. Um hmm. The National Police. Um hum, OK.”
MacIan waited for the condo protocol to play out.
“Go right on up, sir,” said the doorman, pointing to the elevator.
MacIan rode the elevator up, confronting the emotional potential of what he was about to do: tell Arthur’s daughter that her father was dead. An involuntary shudder gritted his teeth and his stomach clenched.
The door to 24F was standing open when he got off the elevator, a young woman in the doorway. MacIan tried to smile. “Mrs. Gager?”
“No,” said the woman. “I’m Arthur’s daughter.” She backed into her apartment, extending her hand. “I’m Camille. Camille Gager.”
MacIan took her tiny hand in his huge paw. It was cold and he could feel her strength draining as she waited to hear what she already knew. “Trooper MacIan, NPF,” he said, pulling the wallet from his inside coat pocket.
She stared at it for a moment, as though it were from a bad dream, then her eyes filled with tears. She reached for it, but at the last second pulled her hand away. “I bought that for him.” She touched the wallet with a little pat, but didn’t take it. “Fiftieth birthday.” She was falling under an ominous spell. “Are you sure, or is it just the wallet?” Her color came back to half a skin-tone, and she leaned hopefully in MacIan’s direction.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Body’s back in Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania? He was looking for someone. A Harbinger Corporation guy. But Pennsylvania?”
MacIan’s ears perked up. Harbinger? He knew Harbinger. As a kid, he’d had a game console and a stack of first-person shooters, all from Harbinger. “Look, ah, maybe this isn’t the time,” he stammered. “I can come back . . .”
“No. This has been coming for a long time. It’s just — now it’s real.” She made a ghostly motion for MacIan to sit on the couch. “Give me a minute.” She raised a finger and backpedaled down a long hallway.
He started to sit, but the Manhattan skyline stopped him. He tip-toed to the floor-length windows lining the east side of the entire building. The sun felt warm on his face, despite the snow down on the road running along the edge of the Palisade. He felt shamefully giddy, considering the morbid circumstances, as he gazed out over the Hudson’s liquid blur at the most spectacularly contemptible place on earth.
An anger he thought he’d quelled coursed through his whole body. The moment he’d stepped into the elevator, his emotional igloo had started to thaw. He
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