Second Honeymoon Page 20

  “You mean the town?”

  “No. The actual church.”

  “Let me check.”

  Sarah bit her lower lip again in full hunch mode while I watched Harris and the other officers exchange more looks, as if to say, Wow—could this get any more twisted than it already is?

  My money was on yes.

  LaSalle quickly scanned the file on Cole and Macintyre, reading aloud certain bits and pieces as if they were bullets in a PowerPoint presentation.

  “Brooklyn residents…met in the army…both sergeants…”

  Harris blinked. “Wait: they were both in the army?”

  “Figures,” I muttered.

  Learning how to shoot a sniper rifle with deadly accuracy wasn’t exactly something you could do in a night course at the New School. But where the hell did Cole learn how to lie so effectively? I would’ve been more embarrassed over being duped if she hadn’t been so damn good at it.

  “Okay, here we go,” said LaSalle. “It says here it was supposed to be at Saint Alexander’s in Brooklyn.”

  “Shit,” muttered Harris. “Do you think—”

  “Emily, is there an address?” asked Sarah.

  “No, just the name.”

  “I know where that church is,” came a voice.

  I turned to see one of the cops stepping forward. He had a face that all but screamed rookie.

  “Is it close by?” I asked.

  “Maybe twenty blocks,” he said. “My sister belongs there.”

  Suddenly, our best-case scenario was potentially our worst. If Sarah’s hunch was right, and that’s where Cole was heading…what was she planning to do?

  Only thing for sure was that we needed to warn whoever might be at the church. I hoped it was no one.

  So much for hoping.

  Again, Harris’s radio crackled. So, too, did every other radio in the group. A chorus of quick static followed by the voice of a female dispatcher.

  It was a 417, she announced. A person with a gun. “Possible hostage situation,” she tacked on.

  By the time she gave the address, Sarah and I and everyone else were already halfway out the building, racing to every parked patrol car.

  Chapter 101

  A DOZEN OR more police cruisers doing sixty with sirens blaring have a funny way of unclogging traffic. Harris drove; Sarah and I held on. We covered the twenty blocks in a couple of minutes flat.

  At first glance, the scene outside Saint Alexander’s was the epitome of irony. It looked like a wedding, of all things—or the end of one, at least. A gathering of well-wishers was milling about on the steps of the church as if at any second the bride and groom would come marching out through the doors, arm in arm.

  “Jesus, we’ve got to clear everyone out of here,” I said as Harris skidded to a stop along the curb. We all knew what happened to the last building Cole had set her sights on.

  The people outside were an easy fix: that was simple crowd control. It was the ones inside the church who were the real problem. The words of the dispatcher were still fresh in my head. Possible hostage situation.

  I stepped out of Harris’s unmarked Explorer, nearly getting myself run over by another arriving patrol car. They were everywhere now, coming in droves.

  Every cop converged on the sidewalk while Harris, Sarah, and I started up the steps of the church. I was about to shout to get the crowd’s attention when a young priest with close-cropped red hair and freckles stepped forward.

  “Are you one of the FBI agents?” he asked me.

  Strange first question. How did he know that?

  “Yes. I’m Agent O’Hara.”

  “Oh, good,” he said. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “Were you inside?” I asked the priest.

  “We all were, but she let us go,” he answered. He immediately corrected himself. “Almost all of us.”

  “Who’s still inside?”

  “Another priest,” he said. “Father Reese.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, that’s it. We were having choir practice when the woman in the wedding dress came storming in. I thought maybe it was some kind of joke at first. Then I saw the gun.”

  “A handgun or something bigger?” asked Sarah.

  “A handgun,” he said. “She was carrying something else, too. It looked like a big green soda bottle. But no label.”

  Ten to one it wasn’t 7UP.

  “What did she say?” Sarah asked.

  “That everyone could leave, except for one person,” he turned to Sarah and said. “Father Reese insisted he be the one.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  He nodded. “Yes. A message.”

  “For whom?” I asked.

  “You,” he said. “And Agent Brubaker.” He turned to Sarah. “I assume that’s—”

  “That’s me,” said Sarah.

  “Oh, good,” he said. “You’re both here. She wants to talk to you—both of you.”

  Chapter 102

  “DON’T DO IT,” said Harris. “Don’t go inside. That’s a terrible idea.” He pointed to the two alleyways on either side of Saint Alexander’s, which separated it from the adjoining brownstones. “There’s got to be a couple of other ways to get in there without her knowing. We can have a SWAT team here in less than ten minutes.”

  “What if we don’t have ten minutes?” said Sarah. “I don’t think we do.”

  “She’s already murdered over a dozen people and is now wearing a wedding dress, waving a gun around,” I said.

  That all but put an end to Harris trying to talk me out of it. “What about you?” I asked Sarah. “Are you in?”

  She removed her Glock from her holster and wedged it into her slacks behind her back.

  “At least let’s check the perimeter for other ways in,” said Harris, resigned. “Just in case.”

  Two teams of four dispersed right and left around the church. In less than a minute we heard back from both.

  “Side door, unlocked,” whispered one cop through Harris’s radio.

  “Basement door, down a set of stairs,” whispered another. “Also unlocked.”

  Harris looked at me again. “Change your mind?”

  “Sorry.”

  Harris radioed back to both teams. I couldn’t help noticing that his whisper was one part quiet and three parts pissed off.

  “Stay put,” he told them. “Go in when you hear shots.”

  He turned around, barking at the remaining cops to push the crowd of onlookers farther back. Down the block I could see the first news van arrive. Within minutes there’d be a lot more.

  “You ready?” asked Sarah.

  I nodded.

  “For the record, the two of you are nuts,” said Harris.

  “Hey, it could be worse,” I said.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “She could’ve asked for all three of us.”

  I gave him a slap on the arm and climbed the last remaining steps up to the church with Sarah. We stopped in front of the doors.

  “Are you religious?” I asked.

  “Lutheran,” she answered. “What about you?”

  “Lapsed Catholic. I was an altar boy growing up, though,” I said. “That’s got to count for something, right?”

  We both drew our guns.

  “Let’s go find out,” she said.

  Chapter 103

  I TOOK ONE side; Sarah took the other. We had become a good team in a very short time, but this seemed like an impossible test.

  With our backs pressed against the faded red brick facade of Saint Alexander’s, we each reached over and grabbed one of the double front doors, pulling them back slowly.

  The initial fear I had came and went. Martha Cole wasn’t shooting on first movement.

  After a few seconds, Sarah called out to the killer. “Martha, are you in there?”

  The crowd noise down on the street made it hard to hear, but I was pretty sure there was no response. Sarah tried again,
louder this time.

  “Martha, it’s Agent Brubaker and Agent O’Hara,” she said. “Can we come inside?”

  Cole answered this time, her voice echoing out to us. She was deep inside the church. “It better be just the two of you,” she warned.

  “It is, Martha,” Sarah yelled back. “I give you my word.”

  She didn’t ask us to come in unarmed—not that we were about to comply with such a request. Or so I thought.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked Sarah, who was tucking away her gun.

  “She trusts me,” she said. “I have to trust her back.”

  “That’s not the same girl who was crying on your shoulder this morning,” I said. “That was an act.”

  “We’ll see. Trust me a little on this.”

  “Okay, but we go in at the same time,” I said.

  “Nah. Ladies first.”

  Before I could say or do anything else, Sarah stepped out from behind the door, her hands raised in the air. If there’s a fine line between brave and stupid, Sarah had bridged it. She now had dual passports. I was so mad I could shoot her—if Martha Cole didn’t do it first.

  She didn’t.

  I stepped out, joining Sarah at the entrance to the church. Looking all the way down the aisle, I could see Cole standing at the altar, her arm outstretched to the side. She had her gun pressed directly against Father Reese’s head.

  Slowly, very slowly, we walked toward them.

  “That’s far enough!” shouted Cole.

  Sarah and I stopped. We were about twenty pews back from the altar. Definitely in range, but not an easy shot.

  “Martha, just let us get a little closer so we don’t have to shout to one another,” said Sarah. “The echo in here makes it very hard to talk. I want to hear what you have to say.”

  Cole laughed. “Who said we were talking?”

  “Why are we in here, then?” asked Sarah. “What do you want from us?”

  “Soon enough,” she said. “Now have a seat.”

  There was no point pressing the issue. I took a step to my right and was about to slide into the pew.

  “NO!” Cole screamed. “NO, NO, NO!”

  I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong, but whatever it was I wasn’t going to keep doing it. I froze right where I was, didn’t move a muscle.

  Sarah, who still hadn’t made a move to sit, raised her palms. “Whoa, whoa!” she said. “Martha, what’s wrong?”

  “That’s the groom’s side,” said Cole angrily. “You need to sit on the left…the bride’s side. I’m the one who invited you.”

  Oh. As in, Oh, shit, this doesn’t bode well.

  Chapter 104

  SARAH AND I slid into the pew to our immediate left. The bride’s side. The upside was that we could take out our guns without Cole being able to see us, something we both did instinctively.

  The downside was that we were sitting. Sitting ducks, I was afraid. Still, I liked having a gun in my hand.

  “Martha, we’ve done everything you’ve asked so far,” said Sarah. “We came in, we sat down where you wanted us to. Now I have to ask you to do one thing for us. You need to let Father Reese go.”

  Cole smirked. “Are you left-handed or right-handed, Agent Brubaker?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Sarah.

  “Because I’m wondering which side of your seat would I find your gun sitting on right now.”

  “You can come here and take a look for yourself. You won’t see a gun,” Sarah lied. “Not from Agent O’Hara, either.”

  I was listening to this exchange, but I was also watching. For the first time, I was able to take a good look at Martha Cole in her white wedding dress, with its square-cut neckline and lace sleeves down to her elbow.

  Brand new, the dress was surely pretty. Now it was dirty, scuffed, and soaked with sweat. In fact, Cole looked to be drenched from head to toe. Even her hair looked as if she’d just stepped out of the shower.

  What a contrast the priest was. Sure, he hadn’t run twenty blocks swathed in taffeta on a hot June afternoon, but with a gun to his head you’d think he’d be sweating all the same. Instead, he appeared to be absolutely calm. At peace.

  In fact, I almost got the sense he knew something that I didn’t. Of course, that was the feeling I always got with priests, but this was different. More earthbound.

  Either way, it was probably a good thing, because Martha Cole had no intention of setting him free. Not yet at least. I hoped she wasn’t planning on setting his soul free.

  “Do you know what Robbie told me when he proposed?” she asked. “He said that the two of us would be together for the rest of our lives. Forever and ever. He was very convincing.”

  “Martha, I understand how upset you are,” said Sarah. “But—”

  Cole cut her off as fast as a New York taxi. “He broke my heart, destroyed it,” she said. Then she flashed a sick smile. “That’s why I put a knife through his.”

  Sarah shook her head, her voice growing stronger. “The killing has to stop, Martha.”

  But she wasn’t listening.

  “I deserved what those other couples had. I deserved it!” she screamed.

  I could practically read Sarah’s mind. Stay calm, keep the dialogue going, say her name as often as possible to keep her trust.

  “I’m sure you did, Martha, but those couples didn’t deserve to die,” said Sarah. “They didn’t do anything to hurt you.”

  “We all die, Agent Brubaker. I saw it every day in the war. The only variable is timing.”

  “But you don’t get to decide that, Martha. You don’t get to play God.”

  “But I did, didn’t I?”

  There was something in the way she said it, the emphatic use of the past tense. The sense of finality.

  My mind started racing. So many thoughts, questions, unknowns.

  Two in particular.

  Where was that strange green bottle the young priest outside had mentioned to us? And what was in it?

  I looked up at the large gold cross looming over the altar. It suddenly occurred to me. This wasn’t going to be a long, drawn-out hostage situation. In fact, it wasn’t a hostage situation at all.

  My eyes shot back down to Cole. I stared at her again, from head to toe. She was drenched, all right, only it wasn’t sweat, was it?

  Oh, Jesus, Jesus…

  I could smell it now, the odor finally traveling the distance from the altar to our pew. Isopropanol. Rubbing alcohol.

  “Good-bye,” she said.

  I jumped up from the pew as Martha dropped the gun, revealing a small lighter in her other hand. So quick, so fast, she flicked a thumb.

  “No!” I yelled. “You don’t have to do this! You don’t!”

  That’s when Martha Cole spoke her last words—the two words there at the altar that she never got to say.

  “I do.”

  There was nothing we could do. Cole pushed Father Reese away and brought the lighter to her dress.

  She went up in flames.

  Chapter 105

  WHY WOULD SOMEONE do what she’d done? That’s usually the first question in the wake of a person’s suicide. But Martha Cole had told us everything we wanted to know about her motives. Not only why she took her own life but also why she took the lives of people she’d never even met.

  It was those lives, especially those of the three newlywed couples, that left us with the real unanswered question. How? How the hell did she do it? Slipping in and out of the grounds of the Governor’s Club in Turks and Caicos to trap and then poison Ethan and Abigail Breslow in their sauna? Evading security at Kennedy Airport to poison Scott and Annabelle Pierce before their flight to Italy?

  And finally, as if bored with poisons, or looking to show the breadth of her expertise, rigging a bomb aboard the boat that Parker and Samantha Keller had docked in Bermuda?

  The answers to all my questions came soon enough. Or at least I got the sort of information that makes you nod your head a
nd go, “Well, that might explain it.”

  Within an hour of Martha Cole’s death, her military file had made its way to Dan Driesen, who e-mailed the pertinent information along to us.

  “Here,” said Sarah, handing her phone over to me once she’d read the message.

  We’d just wrapped up our “official” statements to Detective Harris as well as to two detectives from the nearest Brooklyn precinct.

  I’d even made a call to Warner Breslow, who was in London on business. I told him the news, bittersweet as it was. The murders of his son and new daughter-in-law were more senseless than he could’ve imagined. Would knowing who did it bring him any closure, any sense of justice? For a man like Breslow, I was afraid the answer was no.

  “We’ll talk again when I get back,” he told me. “You did a fine job, John. Thank you.”

  Reading Driesen’s e-mail, I couldn’t help thinking about all those naysayers and conspiracy buffs who could never quite fathom how Lee Harvey Oswald managed to fire three shots from a bolt-action rifle in roughly eight seconds. No way—that’s too fast! There had to be a second shooter! Of course, what the conspiracy theorists always seemed to forget is that Oswald wasn’t some self-taught dope who was practicing on tin cans in his backyard. Oswald had received the very best training in the world—on Uncle Sam’s dime, no less. In the U.S. Marine Corps.

  Martha Cole had been a sergeant in the army, having received training in a wide range of disciplines, including weaponry, explosives, reconnaissance, and sabotage. She was smart, athletically gifted, and an adrenaline junkie. This was according to her psych evaluation.

  A hundred times out of a hundred, such a profile makes for an excellent soldier. And during her tour in Afghanistan, that’s exactly what she was. The problem began when she returned home. The unofficial term is redlining. Like a Ferrari stuck in fifth gear, she was unable to downshift back into the mundanity of civilian life. New York may be the city that never sleeps, but it was no match for the 24-7 danger of Afghanistan and the Taliban forces.

  Ultimately, her relationship with Robert Macintyre paid the price. After that, her entire life exploded into rage and revenge.