“But-” Nurse Nancy began to complain.
“Out. Nonnegotiable. Vamoose! Butch can stay if it makes you feel any better, but you have to scram…. Please.”
The nurse stood back with a sniff and shut the door. Satisfied that his privacy was not going to be invaded, Fulton positioned the walker so that he could relieve himself. “They’re saying I can go home in the next day or two,” he grumbled back at Karp. “But I have to stay off my legs for a few weeks, then gradually rehab back into shape. I can’t wait. The worst thing about this place is all these people treating me like a child. A big, helpless child. I just want to get back to work and hopefully someday run into the mo’fo who did this.”
Karp listened patiently to the rant, which he’d heard since shortly after that terrible day. A farmer in upstate New York, out trying to discover what all the black smoke over by the highway was about, discovered the massacre. Fulton had been found lying with his head on the body of a murdered child, passed out due to loss of blood and shock. His survival had been touch and go for a bit, and there’d been concern about brain damage from the blood loss. But he’d pulled through with his wife, Helen, at his side, and there appeared to be nothing physically wrong with him other than the damage done to his knees.
The surgeons had been able to repair one knee with the expectation that it would fully recover with physical therapy.
“I was going to have to have my knees done someday anyway because of football,” Fulton said as he finished his business and washed his hands. “This was just a little earlier than I’d hoped.” He paused and looked down at the floor. “It’s probably going to get me on the department’s physically-unable-to-perform list…mandatory retirement.”
Fulton’s voice had gone froggy at the statement, and Karp pretended not to notice him swiping at the tears on his face. He assured Fulton that if the police department forced him to retire, he’d still have the job as head of the DAO’s investigations unit. “That won’t change,” Karp said reassuringly.
“Thanks, I appreciate it…but it’s not the same,” Fulton replied. “I’ve been part of the NYPD for most of my life. That’s who I am…a cop with the finest police department in the world…. I wouldn’t be part of the thin blue line anymore.” Fulton seemed to realize the effect he was having on his friend and quickly added, “But that’s okay. You and I can still put the bad guys in the can. I’ll just do it as a civilian with the DAO, right?”
“Yeah, right, Clay,” Karp agreed. He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Sorry I asked you to oversee this one. We should have had the feds handle the whole thing.”
Fulton scowled. “To hell with that,” he said yanking paper towels from the dispenser. “We’ve been over this before. The traitor was a fed, Michael Grover. That’s how we got ambushed.”
Karp nodded. “Yes, I know, I just-”
Before he could finish the thought, Fulton had dismissed it. “I’m the only one who’ll have to answer for this fuckup. I knew something wasn’t right…I could
The last sentence came out as a sob. Fulton’s massive shoulders shook as he cried. Not knowing what else to do, Karp put a hand on his back. “We’ll get them all, Clay,” he gently enunciated, feeling less than adequate at coming up with the right words. “We’ll get the bastards who did it.”
Fulton nodded and straightened up. He pulled another paper towel from the rack, wet it, and wiped his face. Karp noted the dark circles under his friend’s eyes.
In all, six children, ages seven to twelve, had been on the rural school bus commandeered by the terrorists. Six dead children, one dead bus driver, plus nine dead police officers and federal agents. Ten if Grover was counted, but no one was shedding any tears for him.
“So anything new on Kane?” Fulton asked to break the ice as Karp opened the bathroom door.
The public had not been told much about Kane’s escape except that apparent Islamic terrorists had murdered children and law enforcement officers and that authorities believed these terrorists had freed Kane, who was now referred to in the press as “the criminal mastermind Andrew Kane” because of his suspected ties to arms dealers. One of the terrorists had died, and one New York police detective had been wounded and survived, but no identities were being released “at this time.”
In the meantime, the nation had been put on Red Alert as the largest manhunt in U.S. history was launched. But Kane and his accomplices had disappeared.
Meanwhile, the press was going bonkers, clamoring for more, filing Freedom of Information Act demands for whatever public records might exist, but none did-or they were deemed part of the “ongoing investigation” and therefore exempt. The media camped out on the lawns of the families grieving for their children and spoke in stage whispers for the cameras at the funerals of the murdered officers. It was a bonanza for retired generals and terrorism experts, who were trotted out by the television networks as being the final authorities on the latest casualties in the War on Terrorism.
“Maybe, I can help answer that.”
Karp and Fulton looked over at the doorway as S. P. Jaxon, the FBI’s man in charge of the New York office and an old friend of Karp’s, walked into the room followed by another man. It was the second man who’d spoken.
“Roger Karp, Clay Fulton, I’d like you to meet Jon Ellis, the assistant director of special operations with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security,” Jaxon said. “Jon, this is Mr. Roger Karp, Butch to his friends, the district attorney of New York County. And you know all about Mr. Fulton, one of New York’s finest.”
Ellis stepped forward and shook hands with Karp and Fulton. “Of course, no introductions needed,” he said. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Karp-Butch, if I may-and Mr. Fulton’s reputation with the NYPD is legendary.”
“Hi, Espey,” Karp said, shaking the FBI agent’s hand before turning to shake Ellis’s. “Special ops?” The man smiled, but Karp noticed that his eyes did not crease with any humor. Botox or that’s just the way he is, a cold fish? he wondered.
“Nothing like military special ops, Butch,” Ellis replied. “More of a catchall for all the shit-pardon my French, sir-but the shit nobody else knows what to do with. Mostly odds and ends.”
Yeah, like I believe that, Karp thought. Something tells me this guy is no odds-and-ends man.
Jon Ellis wasn’t particularly large; in fact, he was a shade under five foot ten, but from the way he moved, Karp knew there was a trained, muscular body beneath his conservative Brooks Brothers suit. Ellis’s face was tanned and his eyes gray as rain clouds; Karp knew they were assessing him and filing the information into some internal computer.
“Jon will be handling the Kane case, at least the federal side of it,” Jaxon said. “The FBI will mostly be assisting. I’ve been temporarily appointed to be the agency’s liaison with Homeland Security.”
Karp noticed the tightness in Jaxon’s voice and attributed it to the interagency power struggles the feds were known for. Silver haired, lean, and lithe as a cat, Jaxon, known to his friends simply as Espey, was no slouch himself but exuded none of the other man’s cockiness.
“We’ll do our best to cooperate,” Karp said. “Now, you were going to answer Mr. Fulton’s question about the latest on Kane?”
Ellis went over to the doorway and looked up and down the hallway before closing the door. He then picked up the television remote control from the bed stand and turned up the volume.
A bit melodramatic, Karp thought. But maybe that goes with the spook business.
“This goes no further,” Ellis warned. “I shouldn’t really be telling you, but Mr. Jaxon assures me you can be trusted absolutely and need to be in the loop. As to your question, we don’t know where Kane is at the moment, although we have reason to believe that he remains in the United States.” Ellis looked at Fulton. “However, you were right about the terrorists speaking Russian. We’ve identified the dead guy as Akhmed Kadyrov, a Chechen terrorist with ties to al Qaeda.”
“Chechen?” Fulton asked.
“Yeah, from Chechnya or, as they call it, Ichkeria, in southern Russia. He was one of these so-called
