The Eighth Day

Chapter 17

With a seating capacity of 18,200, Madison Square Garden was home to the New York Knicks, Rangers, and Liberty and played host to sporting events, concerts, cultural expositions, and numerous other coups de théâtre.

Tonight, however, it would play host to death.

Shawn Jaffe opened the electrical box and stared at a tangle of wires and circuit boards. He picked one of the wires and traced its path with his fingertips.

Behind him, a man in a black suit asked, "Can you fix it?"

Shawn leaned forward and pretended to inspect the circuitry, tugging at one wire and another as he hummed.

Heigh-ho, the derry-o. The farmer in the dell.

Black suit's sigh of impatience filled the little room.

Shawn used a screwdriver to tighten the clamp on a wire he'd loosened earlier. Then he took a step back and slapped the screwdriver against the palm of his hand as he stared at his handiwork.

"Did you fix it?"

Shawn smiled and continued to hum.

Heigh-ho, the derry-o.

"Hello? Are you deaf? I asked if you fixed it."

Shawn glanced at his watch.

The cat takes the mouse, the cat takes the mouse.

"Screw this," black suit said and pressed a hand to his ear. "This is Agent Lewis. I'm not—"

Shawn threw the screwdriver. Black suit staggered backward and crumpled to the ground.

"What was that? Lewis? Lewis?" The voice came from a tiny wireless earpiece, and Shawn plucked it out of the man's ear and stuck it in his own.

"Lewis here," he said. "Audiovisual should be up and running again."

"Good work. Now get back to the arena. The senator is getting ready to go on."

"On my way."

A dead man lay at his feet, and a screwdriver protruded from one of his eye sockets. Shawn wondered who had killed him. The past crumbled away faster with every passing minute, a sheer drop that disappeared beneath his heels as he sprinted forward, always forward.

Heigh-ho, the derry-o. The farmer in the dell.

It didn't matter. Before the hour ended, he'd dance once more with death. Then it would be over.