Counterplay

her.”

Kane glanced over as the second boat pulled up twenty feet away. A tall, pale man stepped to the edge of the boat. He looked almost like a skeleton. Or the pale rider, a voice said in Kane’s head sending a spasm of fear through his body.

“Nope, telling you the truth, Kane,” Karp said. “Emil never got the chance to reroute the money into your foreign accounts. You got nothing, nada, zippo.”

Kane’s call to confirm the transfer of the money from the Vatican’s bank had arrived with Emil Stavros already in handcuffs and Ray Guma holding the phone so he could speak. Dante Coletta was also handcuffed and sitting on the floor, somewhat worse the wear for having tried to duke it out with Clarke Fairbrother first.

Kane stood for a moment as if contemplating his surrender. But fast as a snake, he reached out and yanked Lucy to her feet and then held his knife at her throat.

“So this is how it ends, Karp,” he said. “But first you’re going to have to watch me cut this bitch’s head off.”

Karp spoke quietly. “Can you get him, Ned?”

Ned shook his head. He still had the terrorist’s handgun from the cathedral, but it was an automatic, not what he was used to, and the boat was pitching. “I’m as likely to hit her as him.”

“Open the bridge, Karp,” Kane said. “Is it worth watching your daughter die?”

Down in the boat, Lucy was finishing her conversation with St. Teresa when Kane pulled her to her feet. For the first time in a long time, Teresa had appeared as a visual manifestation sitting on the seat at the back of the boat. But she looked different than she had in the past. Before, she’d appeared as a young, not particularly pretty woman in fifteenth-century robes; for unknown reasons, this time she was wearing a blue silk shirt over white cutoffs. She also looked to be in her midthirties and was very beautiful.

“I swam this once,” Teresa said. “But I wouldn’t try it at high tide.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy replied, though she realized she’d said nothing aloud.

“No reason,” the woman said. “Just a memory of who I used to be. Andy’s got memories, too, of your kindness once before. I suggest that the white queen make her move. Oh, and Lucy, when you see Ray Guma, tell him hi for me.”

I’ll do that, Lucy thought, then said aloud, “Andy, you need to stop him.”

Kane tightened his grip and pressed the knife harder against her throat. “What the fuck are you talking about, you little whore.”

“Andy. You have to be strong.”

“Quit calling me ‘Andy,’ I hate that name, and you’re giving me a headache,” Kane snarled. “As soon as we get your daddy, I mean Karp, to open the bridge, I’m going to cut your fuckin’-”

“You shouldn’t use bad words,” a boy’s voice scolded.

Lucy felt the grip on her loosen for a moment, then it tightened again.

“Shut the fuck up, you little wimp,” Kane yelled.

“Let her go,” Andy replied. “You’re a bad man.”

“Get out of my head!” Kane shouted again. “You’re not real. You died a long time ago…worthless… stupid.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Andy rhymed, “but words will never hurt me.”

“I’ll hurt you, you son of a bitch,” Kane said, letting go of Lucy who crawled over next to Fulton.

Kane slashed at the air with his knife. “Die, you little faggot,” he screamed, slashing again. “You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re a whore’s son.”

“I’m just a little boy,” Andy cried. “I want to be loved.”

Kane slammed his left hand down on the gunwale of the boat. He raised the knife and chopped down, cutting off three fingers. “There, you weakling,” he screamed. “Now, run and hide. You never could handle pain.”

Blood pouring from his wounded hand, Kane turned to Lucy. “Nice try, bitch. But your little friend is gone. And now I’m going to finish you, too.”

Kane took two steps toward Lucy with his knife in the air. A shot rang out from the bridge above, but the bullet whizzed past. He leaped for the girl, but even as he prepared to drive the knife into her chest, Fulton’s foot lashed out and caught him in the stomach.

The blow knocked Kane to the deck. When he rose, the big detective was between him and the girl.

“Well, Detective.” Kane smirked as he dropped into the Kali on-guard pose. “Guess it’s like I said…I should have killed you back in February.” He feinted with the knife for Fulton’s eyes, then stabbed at his chest. But instead of his blade sinking into flesh, he was surprised when his hand was deflected outward; then the wind was driven out of him when the detective’s other hand shot in and caught him in the solar plexus.

“This ain’t my first knife fight, sucker,” Fulton snarled. “And you…” the next blow caught Kane under the chin “…ain’t that good.” The right cross sent Kane spinning against the rail of the boat where he tottered for a moment and then fell over the side.

Fulton limped over to the side of the boat and looked down at the water. “You’re right,” he said to the bubbles rising to the surface. “The bad guy should always kill the good guy when he has the chance.”

Over in the other boat, Grale also looked at the water. The police helicopter hovering overhead played its spotlight on the area around the boats. But there was no sign of Kane.

Grale dove over the side and down into the dark waters where Kane had disappeared. It was a fool’s chance, the likelihood of finding the other man in the roiling, tumbling currents below was almost nothing. And yet, call it fate, call it faith, call it what you will, the two men found each other beneath the surface. They grappled and held on-one man with only a thumb and finger on one hand but strong in his insanity-each trying to locate the other’s body with his knife.

Over and over they tumbled like socks in a dryer. Down they sank like rocks. Beneath and past the bridge. Their lungs screamed for air, but their brains focused on the death of the other.

Until at last, one knife finally found a home and sank deep into the ribs of the other, who stiffened for a moment, then sagged. The victor pushed the wounded man away and struggled to reach the surface, though in truth he had no idea which direction it was. So it was almost with surprise that he felt his hand break the surface and in the next moment sucked cool fresh air into his aching lungs.

Exhausted and too weak to do anything except float on his back with the current, he looked up to where the clouds were abandoning the sky and saw the stars. A hundred yards away, a police helicopter’s search beam drifted over the waters near the bridge. He began to kick toward the shore…and smiled.

Epilogue

October

Karp glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. Still, plenty of time to hear the verdict, congratulate Guma, then meet up with Marlene, swing by the loft to grab the kids, and make it to the synagogue in time for the twins’ bar mitzvah class.

Word that the jury in the Emil Stavros murder trial had reached their verdict had come an hour ago…more than two weeks after summations and deliberations had been delayed due to the events at St. Patrick’s.

Jon Ellis had wanted to make a deal with Stavros, who, according to his lawyer, had quite a bit of information on al Qaeda banking practices and the accounts he was supposed to send the ransom money to after the transfer from the Vatican bank. He’d be placed in a Witness Protection Program and given immunity from further prosecution for his role in the weekend’s events, as well as the murder trial.

In a meeting with Karp, Guma, Murrow, and Jaxon, Ellis hinted that he didn’t need “the locals’ ” permission “seeing as how this is a national security matter” but was asking as a “matter of courtesy.” Karp told him where he could stick his courtesy and that Stavros was still a prisoner under the lock and key of the New York City criminal justice system and under the jurisdiction of the Honorable Paul Lussman of the New York County Supreme Court,