The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 2

  “Thanks, but I gave my keys to Pop.”

  “Don’t you have a spare?”

  “Sure. Get it from your girlfriend, Susan.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I think it would be better if you waited and came over after Pop and Nick drop me off.”

  “Sure, I’ll stake out your place and as soon as they leave, you can buzz me up.”

  He smiled and said, “You’re wonderful, Rita. Let me thank you now for being with me here these past few days. You have no idea what that meant to me.”

  He was on The Pile again and the heat had penetrated the soles of his shoes. He was looking and listening for any signs of life. He had been there ten days and hopes of finding more survivors were beginning to fade, though no one had yet voiced that thought. It was too terrible to consider that 3,000 people could all be dead. There had to be some groups still breathing somewhere down there. There had to be…

  A plume of smoke rose up twenty feet in front of him and he carefully made his way toward it through the sharp, jagged metal. The opening was about one foot square, and he peered down using his flashlight to search for some indication of a living person. Suddenly, the hole opened wider in a loud groan, and he tumbled down into the darkness, dropping his flashlight from his hand. He fell hard on what felt like flat concrete, and passed out.

  When he came to he was in semi-darkness, and immediately knew he was not alone. Off to his left in the dimness, a large metal pot steamed over an open fire from which emanated a foul, pungent odor of rotten meat. Three figures were hunched over it, stirring its contents. As his eyes adjusted to the light from the fire, he saw the three forms were witches. They all had ugly, green faces and straggly iron-gray hair. There was a brighter light over to his right and he began to rise up to go toward it. As he moved, one of the witches cackled, “Stop right there, my pretty. You’re not going anywhere. Come over here. You know what we want, and we will have it.”

  He instinctively put his hand on his silver shield and shouted back at them, “You’re not getting it, you old hags.” His hand was burning. His shield was white hot and had scorched his glove all the way through. He pulled his hand away in pain and the three witches cackled crazily and began shuffling over to him. “We’ll get it now,” one said. “Oh, yes,” said another, “it will be ours now.”

  He turned and ran on the flat cement toward the light, and the wild cackling and crazy laughter of the witches receded. He came into the light and found himself in a plaza with round, white columns and white marble steps leading up to a large platform. There was a group of people with their backs to him, slightly bent over, looking at something. They were dressed in pure white robes that came down to the floor, and the robes had different colored sashes. He crept up behind them to see what was going on. As he approached to within a few feet, one of the figures whirled around at him. It was a beautiful blonde woman—my God, it was his ex-wife, Peggy. She ran at him with a bloody knife, saying “I’ve got it now.” She slashed at his shield again and again, but the point of the blade could not penetrate it, and it slipped off the bright metal and cut him deep in his left arm. He stared at his gushing blood in horror and felt the searing pain. He looked up at Peggy and she whirled around, and there was a face on the back of her head. The face was Susan’s, and her red lips were drawn back to reveal brilliant white teeth with two huge white fangs dripping with blood. She came at him with the knife screaming, “Let me get it. I’ll get it from this Judas.”

  He staggered away up the steps clutching his arm. A man in a white robe turned and drew him in with the others. “Look what you’ve done,” he said, pointing at a body on the platform. You’ve killed the Emperor. You’ve killed Caesar.”

  He looked down at the body and it wasn’t Julius Caesar, or any other Caesar—it was Richie Winston lying there. And there was a huge sword protruding from the middle of his chest. Richie’s eyes were open and his hands were feebly trying to grasp the sword and pull it from his body. He caught Harry’s eye and whispered, “Cas…Cassidy…help me…help me this time…don’t let me die again…please…” Harry turned from Winston and now the men were dressed in black robes with powdered white wigs. They had grim faces and pointed at him. In unison they said, “Betrayer! We have judged you and found you guilty. Hand it over now.” They began to surround him, and he ran and broke free clutching his shield, which was now ice cold. They were gaining on him, and as he glanced back, the judges were transformed into fierce Arabs in multi-colored kaftans. They were armed with huge scimitars and the curved blades glinted in the white light. He could run no more and they were upon him. He withdrew his pistol and fired, but the only sound that came from it was the metallic click of the hammer falling on emptiness. They began to hack at him, and he screamed in agony…

  “Officer Cassidy! Officer Cassidy, calm down. It’s all right. Please calm down. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Christine, the night nurse placed a cold wet cloth on his forehead and then grasped his flailing arms tightly, comforting him. He awoke totally confused, “Where? What happened…?”

  “You had a bad dream, Officer. It’s not uncommon after trauma like you’ve been through. You’re all right now. Here, have some cold water. Drink.”

  “Thank you,” he said and drank half a glass. “I’m burning up.”

  “You sure did sweat up a storm. Here drink some more. I’ll get Yvonne and we’ll change these bed linens and your pajamas.”

  “You said these dreams are common? How long do they last?”

  “You never know, could be weeks, or months, or…”

  “Or years?”

  “Sometimes, like with the Vietnam and Gulf War veterans. Sometimes they never stop.”

  “This was more than a dream, nurse. This was one super-sized freakin’ nightmare. I don’t know how many more like that I can take.”

  “It helps sometimes if you talk to someone.”

  “You mean like a shrink?”

  “Yes. You know, not only were you shot, but you killed someone. That’s heavy-duty mental stuff. You should definitely talk to a counselor soon after you leave here.”

  “Thanks, I know just the person to speak with. What time is it?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “Can you give me something to put me out? Something strong. I need to sleep and I don’t want to go through that again.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll get it as soon as we change these sheets.”

  “Thanks. You’re a real angel.”

  Jennifer, the day nurse, had to shake Harry awake at eight the next morning.

  “Hey, bright eyes, don’t you want to go home today?”

  “Huh…huh,” he mumbled. “Tired…”

  “Tired nothing. Get your buns in that shower and let me see your wounds when you come out. I’ll get some fresh dressings on you. You want to look good for the doctor or you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Jeez, Jen, I didn’t sleep so good last night. Give a guy a break, will you?”

  She smiled and said, “I know. Christine told me about your bad dream when I relieved her this morning. Did the pills work?”

  “Yeah, they sure did the trick. No more dreams, but I feel hungover.”

  “Hey, you wanted the strong stuff. You’ll feel much better after you shower and have your breakfast.”

  He did feel better, especially after she examined his wounds and gave him a big smile and a thumbs up. Pop and Nick arrived at a quarter to ten and Doc Johannsen popped in a few minutes later. He said, “Let’s have a look,” and peeled back the new bandages and examined each wound thoroughly. “They look fine. How do they feel?”

  “Not too bad, Doc.”

  “Good. I’m releasing you, but I’m going to have a nurse come to your place on Monday and then again on Thursday, to change your dressings and put the proper salve on them. After that, assuming all goes well, you can have your wife change them every three days until they completely close up.”
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br />   “I have no wife. Will these two guys do?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that nice-looking woman who is always visiting you…”

  Pop and Nick glanced at each other as Harry explained that Rita was “just a friend” from the Force.

  “Ask her to do it for you. She is a helluva lot better looking than these two gumshoes.”

  They all laughed and Johannsen shook hands with Harry and left saying, “If there are no complications, see me in my office in two weeks. We’ll decide then about going back to work.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Thanks for saving my life. I’ll always remember you in my prayers.”

  “I was pleased to help one of our Finest.”

  He got dressed and they brought the wheelchair in for him. He knew the hospital rules, so he sat down without complaint. The discharge nurse pushed him down the hall and he said good-bye to all the wonderful nurses who had taken care of him. God bless them all.

  They arrived at Harry’s apartment and he walked steadily from the car to the front door, but opted for the elevator to the third floor. “I still feel those two shots in my legs, guys. I’m not quite ready for two flights of stairs.”

  Nick put on coffee and Pop made sure the couch, footstool, and remote control for the TV were positioned correctly. When they finished chatting about the case and the coffee was gone, Nick and Pop got up to leave.

  “Can we do anything else for you before we go?”

  “No thanks, Pop, I’ll be fine. Rita is going to stop by to say hello and maybe get some things from the store for me.”

  “Boy, you sure don’t let any grass grow under your feet between lady friends,”Nick said. “And she’s almost as gorgeous as Susan Goldman, and man, she was some looker.”

  Seated in her car, Rita watched Pop and Nick leave Harry’s building. Five minutes later she was walking up the stairs after he buzzed her in.

  “How does it feel to be home?” she asked.

  “Wonderful. And after a few days of rest, I can’t wait to get back to work.”

  “I’ll run out for sandwiches for lunch. After we eat, I’ll do some shopping for you, so if you think of anything you need, write it down. What would you like for supper?”

  “What I’d really like is a great big sausage pizza pie from Tony’s across the street. I’ve been eating hospital food for a week, and I crave pizza.”

  When they finished their sandwiches, Rita picked up her shopping list and got up to leave. “I’m going to stop in the office for a couple of hours and I’ll go shopping on the way back here. I should be here between five and six and then we can order your pizza.”

  “How are things back at the office?”

  “If you mean, how Susan is, she’s gone. She’s been assigned to Boro Public Affairs until she finishes law school.”

  “Then what?”

  “The latest she told me was she would probably leave the Job and try to sign on with the District Attorney’s Office. Harry, I know you’re still hurting, but if it’s any consolation, she’s hurting, too.”

  “I’m sure she is. The life of a betraying Judas is not easy—believe me, I know.”

  She took his hand and said, “Harry, you’ve got to work through this. You have to put the Winston case and the Susan Goldman affair behind you. The quicker the better. I can help you. That’s where my training and education come in to play. Please let me try.”

  “How are you with dreams?”

  “Been having some bad ones?”

  “Oh, yeah. Nightmares would be a better description.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m pretty good at dream interpretation.”

  “You are? Maybe when we get the chance I can lay them out for you.”

  “Sure, I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

  2

  That night Harry did not dream of witches or The Pile, but he dreamed of the day he got shot. He watched himself walk his beat in the Seven-Six precinct in Jackson Heights, Queens. He watched himself spot the killers of Richie Winston go into an apartment building, and despite knowing what was going to happen next, he followed.

  He dialed the Nine-Five squad on his cell phone. Pop Hunter answered, and Harry filled him in. Pop said, “Nick and I are on the way. Don’t do anything until we get there.”

  “Here comes another one. I’m going after them.”

  He closed the phone before Pop could protest and crossed Roosevelt Avenue, running low behind the parked cars. He was a little out of breath when he got to the front entrance a minute later. He peeked through the glass doors into the lobby. The elevator doors were closed and he watched the floor numbers sequentially light as it moved up. It stopped on the third floor. He rang the super’s number and announced he was the police. He was buzzed in and the super opened his door and waved him into his apartment. “I need your help,” Harry said.

  “Certainly, Officer. I am Duc Phan. What can I do for you?”

  “I just observed three young Middle-Eastern men come into this building. At least one of them went up to the third floor. I’d like you to go up there and watch to see if any others go up, and what apartment they go in.”

  “Gladly, I’ll go right now.”

  As Phan opened his door he heard the buzzer sound and he peeked out. “It could be another one, Officer. When the elevator doors close I will run up the stairs. I am very fast.”

  Five minutes later he was back and said, “He went into 3C. That apartment is rented by Ahmed Hanjour.”

  “Has there been any trouble there?”

  “No. He has been there only five months.”

  “May I have the key, and may I use your phone?”

  “Of course.”

  Harry dialed the stationhouse and asked the desk sergeant to send a couple of radio cars for back-up.

  “Maybe you should wait for them, Cassidy. Detective Hunter already called concerned about you, but he didn’t know exactly where you were going.”

  “I’m not waiting, Sarge. I’ve been looking for this guy for too long to let him get away now. I’ll wait until I hear the sirens from the back-up cars before I head up.”

  “Okay, but be careful.”

  Harry walked up the stairs and crept down the hallway to 3C. He listened at the door for a full minute, but heard no movement inside. He then heard the distant wail of radio car sirens and slipped the key into the lock with his left hand. He removed his Glock from its holster and flicked off the safety. It was cocked and ready to go, with one already in the chamber. He turned the key with his left hand, and when he felt the lock disengage, he burst inside. He immediately spotted three of them, two on the couch and one on a chair and he yelled “Freeze! Hands over your head, then get down on the floor. Now!”

  The three young men complied. One of them was Winston’s murderer and he had a look of fear in his eyes. Harry got a bit of satisfaction in seeing that. Just then three more young men burst out of the bedroom with guns blazing, yelling, “Die infidel!” Harry returned fire and time seemed to slow down. He was stunned as the first round caught him high on the chest of his body armor. It spun him to the left and two more slugs caught him in the right hip and thigh. He twisted back to face the fire and blasted away as fast as he could at the multiple targets confronting him. He felt a bullet smack into the stomach area of the armor and one more into his left shoulder, and now he was falling. Another round deeply creased the left side of his head. He fell hard to the floor, squeezing off his last two rounds into the ceiling.

  There was complete and utter silence in the smoke-filled room. Harry lay on his back, conscious, but knew he was badly wounded. He was bleeding heavily from several locations, especially from the head wound. Someone moved over him. He looked up, waiting for the final bullet to enter his brain. He blinked the blood out of his eyes and focused on the face that hovered one foot above him. “You!” he gasped as he came face to face with the killer of Richie Winston.

  The killer drew closer, gun drawn and pointed at Harry’s head,
his eyes studying the blood-smeared face beneath him. Then recognition dawned upon him, “You!”

  An urgent voice said, “Come, Ziad, I hear the sirens right outside. We must get out of here now.”

  Harry passed into unconsciousness, his last thought being the name spoken by the unknown voice—Ziad. Ziad, so that’s your name…

  Leaving the big cop bleeding on the floor of Ahmed’s apartment, they ran down the stairs and out of the building and immediately turned into the side alley just as the responding patrol cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing came squealing around the corner. “My house,” Ziad said as they sprinted through the back streets away from the main thoroughfares of the neighborhood. When they were eight blocks away from Ahmed’s apartment they slowed down, and Ahmed said, “Let’s split up and take different streets to your house. You go directly there, and me and Abu will come separately a few minutes apart.”

  “Okay, come in the alley and enter through the side door. I will leave it unlocked.”

  “Will we be safe there?” Abu asked.

  “Yes, my parents both work and will not be home until well after dark.”

  Fifteen minutes later the three were sitting around the kitchen table gulping down ice water and waiting for the teapot to boil. Ahmed said, “What in Allah’s name happened back there? Where did that cop come from?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Ziad said a bit too quickly.

  “Ah, Ziad, but I think you do.”

  “What do you mean? I…”

  “Ziad, it was obvious he recognized you and you recognized him, and that recognition stopped you from putting one final bullet into his brain. Before I call our section chief, Ramzi, perhaps you had better let me know.”

  “You are right, Ahmed. I’m afraid I did not tell you the whole story of the night I bought the guns in Elmont and that bastard bartender threw me through the glass door. When I was lying in the street, that big cop came along and he treated me kindly. When the cop went in the bar to confront the bartender, I ran for the subway. I did not want him to come out and find the guns on me.”