The Julian Year Read online

  “A protest against God,” Meister said. “The book of Revelation says man will turn against him in the end times.”

  “What the fuck do you know about the book of Revelation?”

  “I’ve heard things.”

  “You ain’t heard shit.”

  Meister checked his watch.

  “Why the hell do you keep looking at your watch?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Okay, keep it to yourself.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you: it’s my birthday in eleven seconds.”

  “Oh yeah?” Morelli said. “How old are you, five?”

  “Very funny. No, I’m twenty-five, right . . . now.” A steady stream of yellowish vomit splattered the windshield in front of Meister.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Sloan said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Morelli covered his nose with one hand.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Meister said, rolling down his window.

  “You’re gonna be sick? What the hell do you call that barf all over the windshield and the dashboard? I’m going to be sick.”

  “I’ll get out here and walk the rest of the way,” Morelli said.

  “Ahhhh, fuck,” Meister bowed his head against the vomit-soaked dashboard.

  Sloan glanced at his partner. “Hey, buddy, are you okay?”

  Meister threw his back against his door, and Morelli saw he held his Glock. Meister fired two shots, the reports deafening.

  Sloan flailed his arms, blood and solid matter struck his window, and he slumped over.

  Morelli’s eyes widened as the car veered left and crashed into a parked vehicle near Sixty-second Street, triggering the other vehicle’s alarm. The impact hurled him against the back of the front seat, forcing him to get a better look at Sloan’s head wound, through which the remainder of his brain oozed. Between the grisly sight and the acidic stench of vomit, he felt bile burning his throat.

  Meister opened his door and fled.

  Morelli tried to open his door but couldn’t because the back doors of police cars only open from the outside so perps can’t escape. Rolling onto his back, he brought his knees to his chest and kicked out with both feet, shattering the door’s window.

  When he sat up he saw a man in a white apron holding a shotgun outside a deli.

  Morelli raised both hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m a cop. Look at my uniform.”

  Peering inside, the man nodded.

  Morelli flinched at the sound of gunshots.

  Three holes opened up in the man’s apron, and blood spilled out of the wounds. The man toppled over into a fruit display.

  Meister!

  Morelli scrambled through the broken window and dropped onto the sidewalk. He heard more gunshots, followed by the sound of metal puncturing. Ignoring the sight of Sloan’s bloody head pressed against the car window, he jerked on the door handle, hoping to get to Sloan’s weapon, but the door was locked. Morelli heard footsteps circling the car. Sitting back on his ass, he drew his .32 from its ankle holster just as Meister stepped around the rear of the cruiser. He squeezed the trigger but the gun jammed.

  Damn it!

  Meister aimed his Glock at him. Rocking forward on his heels, Morelli dove across the sidewalk between the fruit displays outside the deli. Meister fired, a round ricocheting off the concrete where Morelli had just been.

  Seizing the murdered grocer’s shotgun, Morelli got up on one knee, aimed, and fired the powerful weapon, blowing off Meister’s left hip in a shower of blood and bone fragments. Meister spun screaming to the pavement.

  Rising, Morelli pumped the shotgun, ejecting a shell, and moved forward, aiming the gun.

  Meister managed to retrieve his fallen Glock.

  “Don’t do it!”

  Grimacing, Meister swung the Glock in Morelli’s direction.

  Morelli triggered the shotgun, this time blowing off Meister’s head in a wet explosion that showered the street in sticky, hot crimson that produced pink steam.

  “Welcome to our world,” Larry said to Morelli, who sat in a chair on the other side of the metal table, facing Larry and Anibal. “It isn’t much but we’re comfortable.”

  “Why am I talking to you guys?” Morelli said, his hands folded before him.

  “IAB has a full dance card. There’ve been so many officer-related shootings that no cheese eaters are available to interview you and won’t be anytime soon.”

  “We’re honorary cheese eaters,” Anibal said.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Morelli said.

  Larry offered a patronizing smile. “Of course you didn’t. You just saved the city some coin by filling in a pothole.”

  “Do I need to get someone from the union?”

  “Relax, Steve,” Anibal said. “We know it was a clean shoot, even if it was excessive. We just want to hear how it all went down.”

  “I’m alive because of my actions, so I wouldn’t characterize them as excessive.” Morelli described the incident in as much detail as he recalled. “One minute Meister was fine, acting like a jerk off, then he puked and opened fire.”

  “We’ve had other reports of perps vomiting before they flew off the handle,” Anibal said.

  “It supports the notion of food poisoning. Maybe mercury from too much fish.”

  “They’re not eating the same fish in other countries that we are at the same time,” Larry said.

  “You get my point.”

  Larry turned back to Morelli. “Excuse us. Sometimes we act like an old married couple.”

  Anibal pointed at him. “How many times do I have to tell you to cut that shit out?”

  “Until it works?”

  “Me and my partner are the same way,” Morelli said.

  “Any word on how she’s doing?”

  “No, the circuits are busy. I still hope to get down to Beth Israel.”

  “Well, we’re going to be a while. These statements always take time, and in your case two cops are dead.”

  “I only killed one and it was self-defense.”

  Larry nodded. “As I said, a righteous kill. Lucky for you that grocer had a shotgun, or we’d be talking to Meister now instead of you.”

  “Fat lot of good that would have done you.”

  “Why’s that?” Anibal said.

  “He shouted at me right before I shot him the second time, but it was gibberish.”

  “What kind of gibberish?”

  “A foreign language, only one I never heard before. It’s funny because last night—this morning—Eric Morano, my other perp, said something before he jumped into the East River, and I swear it sounded the same.”

  “Now isn’t that a coincidence?” Larry said.

  “How’s that?”

  “We interviewed the perp you and your partner brought in last night.”

  “Wilhelm Keiper,” Anibal said.

  “He spoke some crazy-ass language neither one of us ever heard before.”

  Morelli raised his eyebrows. “Wow, everyone’s speaking in tongues.”

  “Maybe they all came from the same country,” Anibal said in a deadpan voice.

  “Yeah, the US of A,” Larry said.

  “I don’t know about the perps,” Morelli said, “but Meister was as white-bread as they come. He had a real nasty mouth on him. I can’t see him learning a second language.”

  “I have a novel idea,” Larry said. “Let’s record your statement.”

  When Rachel opened her eyes, Morelli stood looking over her, just as he had when she regained consciousness outside the movie theater earlier. The sun had gone down. She had awakened several times during the course of the day and had looked for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hi,” Morelli said, smiling. “Hi,” she whispered.

  “I’d stroke your hair, but that bandage looks like serious business.”

  “Concussion, just like you diagnosed. Maybe you chose the wrong profession.”

  “I�
�ll say. I could kick myself for not seeing that creep in the back of the theater.”

  She winced. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Yes, it is. How many stitches?”

  “Four, I think. My parents?” Gerald and Helen Konigsberg lived on Long Island.

  “Sorry but the circuits are still tied up. I’ll keep trying, though.”

  She swallowed. “Everyone seems scared here.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  Reaching behind him, Morelli took a newspaper from his back pocket and unfolded it. The cover of the Daily Post read, Birthday Massacre! Underneath photos of murder victims lying in streets, the caption read, Unexplainable Global Phenomena.

  Rachel squinted at the paper. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nobody does. But today was the birthday of every perp who went on a killing spree since midnight, including Ken Meister, who I took down earlier.”

  “Oh, Steve, I’m sorry . . .”

  “I don’t care about that scum who attacked you but one of our own . . .”

  “How many so far?”

  “Millions all over the world. The president’s giving an address in an hour. The real fear is that even if we can contain what’s going on, it’ll continue tomorrow and the day after that.”

  “I want to hold your hand.”

  Smiling, he offered her his hand.

  His grip felt firm, gentle, and reassuring. “When’s your birthday?”

  “August 4,” he said.

  Seven months, she thought. “Don’t let go.”

  “You know I won’t.”

  “I mean it. Don’t ever leave me.”

  She saw in his eyes that he understood she was trying to express herself in a way she never had before.

  “That’s just your concussion talking. You’ll be your fiery self again in a few days, telling me to get lost.”

  “No, I want us to be together. I don’t care about the job anymore. I don’t know what’s going on in the world or how long we’ve got, but I want us to spend it together.”

  “I want the same thing,” he whispered. Then he leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. Looking into her eyes, he stroked her cheek. “The Brooklyn wop and the Long Island Jew. Who’d have thought?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, who knew?”

  Footsteps slapped the tiled floor in the hall, and a woman screamed. A male patient in his midthirties, with an unkempt beard and greasy long hair, charged into the room.

  Morelli straightened up. “Hey—”

  The wild man slammed Morelli against the window beside Rachel’s bed. The sound of glass breaking—more like a metal bar clanging on a cement floor—filled the room, and for just a second Morelli’s clothed legs kicked beneath the wild man’s naked limbs, and then they disappeared. She didn’t hear a scream.

  With her heart pounding, Rachel climbed over the metal guard on the side of her bed. Dizziness overcame her as she staggered over to the broken window and felt frigid wind on her face. On the sidewalk eight stories below she saw what appeared to be a large black splotch on the sidewalk. Within the splotch she discerned the broken form of a mostly nude man beside one in a police uniform.

  Sinking to her knees, she screamed before blacking out.

  Ten

  Weizak packed his belongings into a worn cardboard box. “Try not to miss me,” he said to Ruth and Jerry Byrne.

  “We won’t,” Byrne said. He wore his light brown hair swept back from his widow’s peak in an effort to hide his bald spot, and his manicured mustache made him resemble an effeminate Errol Flynn.

  “I’m happy for you,” Ruth said. “Hopefully the world isn’t ending now that you’ve caught your big break.”

  “Could there be a bigger story than the human race ending?” Weizak said.

  “I suppose not. Don’t forget about us rats down here.”

  “I promise I’ll visit.” He carried his box up the spiral staircase to the newsroom, where reporters clustered around televisions, waiting for the president to speak. Setting the box on his new desk, he made his way over to the nearest screen just as the presidential seal dissolved to a live image of President Rhodes at his desk in the Oval Office. Though only in his late forties, the man’s hair had turned gray during his first term. Weizak wondered what would happen to it now.

  “Good evening,” President Rhodes said. “As all of you know, we woke up to a different world today, one in which every man, woman, and child with a birthday on January 1 descended into a mental state that can only be described as psychotic. We don’t know the cause of this mass psychosis. We only know that it’s occurred—and continues to occur—on a global scale.

  “The death toll across the world is in the millions, and because every nation on earth has been affected, it’s unlikely that this phenomenon is man-made. The world’s leading scientists and medical experts are working to discover the source of this emotional and mental collapse; they are desperately seeking a cure. It’s entirely possible that this condition is cosmic, perhaps even biblical. For now, the job of this government is to ensure the safety of its citizens, both here in the US and abroad. I’m urging governors to deploy National Guards to assist police with law enforcement measures. They will be armed.

  “It’s important that we don’t panic and we continue to work. Our society must remain functional. I’m in touch with other world leaders to see how we can help each other. At last count, three nuclear energy facilities have suffered reactor meltdowns, none of them in the US; six passenger jets have crashed into metropolitan areas, two in the US; and numerous riots have broken out on each continent. I’ve suspended private and commercial air travel in the US, and other nations are following suit, and I’ve ordered protective forces to guard our nuclear energy installations.

  “I encourage every citizen to exercise extreme caution. Travel with friends and family. Maximize your security measures at home and work. Look inward to find strength. If you believe in a higher power, I beg you to pray to him now in the hope that this inexplicable madness ends. I promise that my staff and I will remain in constant communication with the public. Good night and God bless the United States of America.”

  Weizak looked around at his colleagues, though he didn’t really care what any of them thought about the president’s address. He went over to his desk and unpacked his box. He had accumulated so much junk in a decade of doing nothing: souvenirs, party favors, and other tchotchkes. Holding a collectible Batman figure in one hand and Superman in the other, he wondered why a grown man owned superhero toys when he should have had children to give them to instead.

  “This is for you.” Rosen stood before him, holding out a slip of paper.

  Weizak took the paper and whistled. “The New York Times wants to interview me?”

  “Yeah, how about that? You’ve gone from being a worker ant to a star reporter in less than twelve hours. Nowak and I agree it will be good publicity for us if you do the interview. We’re limiting it to six questions.”

  “Sure.” Weizak was puzzled. What would he say to a reporter from the Times? He wasn’t an expert on what was happening; he wasn’t an expert on anything. He had merely made a fortuitous discovery because of his OCD when everyone else was busy dealing with the crisis at hand.

  “Not that anyone can get through, but we feel it’s a good idea to hold back on assigning you a dedicated extension. You’re going to be deluged with calls from other news agencies. We’re making it clear that the Times interview is one time only and exclusive. Anything else you have to say—assuming you’re more than a one-trick pony—is for the Daily Post alone.”

  “I’ve always been a company man.”

  “You’ll be getting a promotion for this story, plus a raise. Maybe you’ll even get a Pulitzer if there’s anyone left to award it.”

  Eleven

  After kissing his wife and daughters good-night, President Hari Rhodes exited the second floor living quarters at 1600 Pennsy
lvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., and nodded to his two Secret Service men.

  “Let’s do it.” He carried his suit jacket over one shoulder. He had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt hours earlier.

  The three men boarded one of the three elevators operating in the White House and descended to the two-story basement, where they were greeted by two more Secret Service men, and all four protectors escorted the president down a long, carpeted corridor lined with paintings. Halfway down the corridor, Rhodes put on his jacket and buttoned his collar. This was no time for comfort.

  Leaving his bodyguards in the corridor, Rhodes entered the five-thousand-square-foot Situation Room, where his national security team awaited him. All the seats surrounding the long wooden conference table and those in the raised boxes overlooking the table from the sides were occupied by pensive-looking individuals. The official White House photographer’s camera flashed as Rhodes crossed the room and everyone else rose.

  Taking his seat at the head of the table, Rhodes said, “Be seated.”

  Men and women in military uniforms and suits sat and waited for their leader to commence the meeting. Vice President Christopher O’Rourke sat on Rhodes’s right, and Donna Lopez, the secretary of state, sat on his left. In close proximity sat the secretary of defense, the chief of staff, and the president’s most immediate advisors.

  Rhodes looked across the table. “Give me numbers, Austin.”

  Austin Stoker, Rhodes’s chief advisor, clicked his gold pen, a gift from the president. “Obviously, it’s impossible for us to track casualties all around the world. Not every nation is willing to share information, even if its government has collated the data. But estimates lead us to believe that almost nineteen million people have been affected by this condition, with eight hundred thousand cases in the United States.”

  “Are more likely to come to light?”

  “Without a doubt. We know for certain that 857,000 US citizens had their birthday today. Throw in undocumented aliens, and we’re looking at least at 860,000.”

  “Have we settled on a name for this condition?”

  “The Omega Disorder.”