by Laird Barron
When I thought of the treasure, all I could picture was the Croatoan’s gangrenous features welded to the mask he’d worn while slaughtering all those mobsters, prostitutes, and hapless jerks who’d stumbled across his path.
“Are you okay?” Lionel studied me intently.
“Meg stopped what she was doing and stared at me, like you’re staring. She said, ‘You’ve changed.’”
“Was it a compliment?”
I didn’t know.
CHAPTER TWO
Seventy-two hours before the Feds brought the hammer down on Badja Adeyemi, a right bastard of an ex-NYPD cop, he summoned me to his cabin on Elkhorn Lake. He offered my day rate and some Glenrothes 18 to hear his spiel, so I cleared the decks and made the hour drive upstate from my residence in the hinterlands of New Paltz and Rosendale.
The call intrigued me on its face; the offer of scotch and money didn’t hurt. A man with his clout had access to every detective in the book. We weren’t acquainted and my agency was in the Catskills bush league. Yet it was doubtful that he picked my name out of a hat. What I said about nature having a plan counts here too. The machinery of the universe is always grinding. Now and again, we fleas intersect with the gears’ teeth.
Normal people hadn’t heard of Adeyemi; however, if you were a criminal, political junkie, or partial to tri-state high society, the name likely rang alarm bells. Hop a time machine back a couple decades on the mean streets of New York where Adeyemi toiled as a patrol cop, detective, and lieutenant, respectively, and you happened to operate on the wrong side of the law, his size thirteen jackboot might well have trod your face in the name of justice. His latest résumé highlights included ex-bodyguard and majordomo to a world-renowned business mogul turned politician. U.S. Senator Gerald Redlick, aka Mr. Charisma, CEO and owner of the Redlick Group. Him, everybody knew.
Adeyemi had been holed up in the sticks since August. That summer, he’d participated in the epic public foreign corruption trial of a former Redlick Group CFO. RG specialized in real estate. As with any other heavyweight corporation, its subsidiaries and affiliates extended the mother ship’s reach into dozens of techs on multiple continents. Laundering filthy, filthy Russian dough was the key indictment against the CFO. Due to his history with the organization, Adeyemi got tagged as a minor player, although everybody figured he knew more than he’d proven willing to divulge. His cooperation hadn’t extended past invoking the Fifth Amendment.
The spectacle ended in a hung jury. News analysts predicted the Southern District of New York would reload and try, try again, this time armed with new information and more pressure on potential witnesses. Redlick was the big fish they wanted; this was known. It beggared credulity to assume anything had transpired at the corporation without his say-so. Problem for the DOJ was, the senator had cunningly insulated himself as a matter of course; he’d placed the majority of his holdings in a blind trust upon assuming office. Critics alleged that he’d orchestrated certain aspects of his business with a wink and a nod, as a mafia don might. Redlick’s former CFO declined to flip on the senator, immunity deal notwithstanding. Apparently, the exec was more terrified of vengeful Russian oligarchs (and likely Redlick himself) than doing five to ten in a federal prison.
Adeyemi was likely to be the player without a chair when the organ stopped playing. His prize? An unlucky recipient of the government’s full attention. The Feds reasoned that a longtime bodyguard, driver, and confidant would possess mucho dirt on Redlick. Surely said bodyguard, driver, and confidant had been corrupted by proximity. Surely he possessed a weak spot that the Southern District of New York could exploit to force his testimony.
Redlick, a rumored deviant and scofflaw long before this current scandal, had cause to be mightily worried. He was the first New York Republican elected to the U.S. Senate since the 1990s and the odds were stacked against another term. Whatever his legal and political jeopardy might entail, and amid a chorus of fellow GOP senators calling for him to quit his office, Redlick exuded his trademark smugness at every press conference. He was either a man with nothing to fear, or a man who feared nothing.
I got on the road.
Late November had stolen upon us, robbed the trees of their autumn splendor, and bruised the fields with brown and gray. The long, brooding nights of winter were certain to prick a guilty man’s conscience with dread, if not introspection.
* * *
■■■
I arrived at the cabin and parked next to an SUV with dried mud on its New Jersey plates. The spot overlooked a beach and a chilly stretch of lake. An early snow had dusted the upper Hudson, with another storm predicted to slam us before the weekend. Fallen leaves had crumbled to dust, opening big spaces between the white poplars and paper birches. Adeyemi stood at the far end of a dock, hands stuck into the pockets of a windbreaker. He wore a .38 police special in a shoulder holster. Invisible under the windbreaker, but I’d gone over the news footage and knew it was there all right.
He watched me exit my old pickup and then slouched in my direction.
Once upon a time, Adeyemi had been as photogenic as a menswear model with those broad shoulders and Dunhill suits. Sixty-eight and sliding fast, his trademark brush cut had thinned to wisps. Lines etched his gaunt face. Lively and mean, those eyes of his. Some might have mistaken his posture for geniality. Not I. Cruelty and evil age like wine.
We shook. His hands were carved from hardwood. The power in his grip reminded me of a video wherein he casually grasped a protester (a kid waving a sign outside of Redlick Tower, natch) by the scruff and flung him over the hood of a car. Here was a man born in the wrong century. He would’ve been right at home as a broadsword-swinging Dark Ages knight mowing down hapless peasants in the village square.
“Hello, Isaiah Coleridge,” he said.
“Hi, Lieutenant. Thanks for the invitation. I haven’t had the distinct pleasure of meeting an NYPD Medal of Valor recipient until today.”
“You’re welcome.”
“By that token, I’ve met my share of cops who’d sweat their own mother. We’ll call it a wash.”
He was pleased rather than offended.
“Flattering that you’ve read the stats on my baseball card. I’ve read yours too.”
“What’s the line on me?”
“A natural hard case who twisted many an arm and no doubt fitted a few mooks with concrete shoes. Got fired from the Outfit and lived to fight another day. Some trick. I bet your boss was sad to see you go—he invested in college education, finishing school. You’ve reinvented yourself as a PI. Another neat trick. My hunch is you’re a lucky guy. ‘Lucky is superior to good’ is a rock-solid aphorism.”
“My confidential file isn’t so confidential.”
“This is the era of Big Brother. Anyway, I have pals in DC. That and a few bucks greased the skids.” His wink intimated there’d been more threats than bucks involved. “Certain circles, you’re as infamous as Sammy the Bull. Except you never ratted.”
“Never got caught.”
He snorted.
“Me neither. We buried more bodies in the Barrens than any of you mobster fucks. Guaranteed.”
“No contest, Lieutenant. Pigs run the largest, meanest gang in the world.”
“Ouch. Keep it friendly, hey?” He edged closer to me. Mr. Intimidation. He smelled of aftershave and meanness. In his segue to civilian life, he’d shed the cop pretenses of protecting and serving and retained the brutishness, the villainy.
“This is me in friendly mode,” I said. “My eyes aren’t glowing red yet.”
“A laconic brute with a sense of humor. I bet the rubes took one look at you and spilled their guts. When it comes to alleged hard cases, you don’t know who’ll squeal, not for certain. I mean, I’ve a nose for it, a dependable intuition. Don’t know until you try. People surprise you.”
“Every minute of the day,” I s
aid.
“We did what it took to get confessions out of our perps. Whaled the soles of their feet with billy clubs. Slapped them in cuffs and a ball gag and shot soda foam up their noses. The nervous system thinks it’s drowning. Tightened their cuffs until their hands swelled like balloons. My favorite? Ram your pinky down real deep into a guy’s eardrum till he hollers. Smart money says it would take ten men and a boy to crack a character such as yourself.”
“Might have to use your thumb.”
He guffawed and waved me inside.
CHAPTER THREE
We sat at a wooden table. Rude, concave, and stained like a sacrificial altar. He poured two glasses of single malt and shoved one my way. We clinked glasses and drank. He poured again. I surveyed his abode. Not much to see. Exposed timber and plank, a scuffed throw rug, barrel stove, and a loft. Fly rods and bear-paw snowshoes in the corner, a faded tapestry of the Catskills on the far wall. Nothing of a personal nature—no photographs or postcards. Spartan to the bone.
“Elkhorn Lake?” I said.
“Used to be lousy with elk. Ages ago. Conservationists tried to reintroduce them in the early twentieth century. Didn’t take.”
“Might’ve worked if sport hunters would stop shooting everything that moves for five minutes,” I said.
“Uh-huh. How do you like your steak? Rare? Don’t feel too sorry for Mama Nature. She gets her own. White Elk Preserve is over yonder hill. Summer or two back, a wildlife photographer ventured in there and recorded a deer licking salt excretions from the mummified remains of some local hermit. Nobody realized the hermit had gone missing until the authorities carted him to the morgue. You’re in the boonies, friend. Unfriendly, remorseless. Remind you of home sweet home?”
“It’s pleasant not to have icicles hanging from my nose.”
“Must befuddle the wiseguys, you going legit. The Italians are taking the long view. Otherwise, enemies keep piling up.”
“Great men have detractors.”
“So do assholes.” He splashed another generous shot of scotch into my glass. “No offense, big fella. I wanted to take your temperature. Done and done. You’ll do. You’ll do fine.”
I donned my poker face and waited for him to divulge his secrets.
He pulled aside the drapes a smidge and peered into the yard. More a bank-robber-on-the-lam move than that of a salt-of-the-earth cop enjoying his well-deserved retirement. One acquires certain habits when one forges nefarious associations.
“The SDNY wants to clamp my family jewels in a vise before they take another shot at the Redlick Group. Immunity if I testify; a boatload of felony charges if I decline. Ha! I’m not gonna sing.”
“Too bad Redlick won’t believe that. Or the Russians. Or anybody.”
He actually preened.
“Gerry does. He knows I’m stand-up.”
“You’re hard as nails, I totally get it,” I said. “Rock on with your bad self, et cetera. You don’t owe Redlick, though. Testify and go loaf someplace warm under a brand-new identity. Why risk having polonium-210 sprinkled on your toilet seat?”
“The FSB? Those weasels aren’t involved. Rent-a-thugs sent by one of the Russian oligarchs Redlick was in bed with, yeah, possibly. It isn’t beneath Redlick’s cronies either. Fuck ’em. I don’t care.”
“Hiding in the woods, scanning the perimeter for Russian mobsters? Marvelous retirement plan.”
“The game was over in August,” he said. “It was over when the DA brought charges. I’m running out the clock on my own terms. Farmers’ Almanac says everything north of Kingston can expect a deep freeze by Christmas. Bailing for Florida tomorrow. Any bastards want to arrest me, or whack me, I’ll be beachside, sipping margaritas, my arm around a cabana girl.”
“I bet the senator would love to go with you and leave his worries behind. Re-election campaign starts next year. He can’t be happy with this flak.”
“Forget next year. The machine is already grinding.”
“What’s the early forecast?”
“The polls are shaky as a dry drunk.”
“Hard to be a conservative in New York.”
“Walking a knife edge.”
“You’d think a man in his position would be kissing more ass,” I said. “Yours, particularly. Despite you being ‘stand-up’ and whatnot.”
“Redlick doesn’t operate the way regular people do,” he said.
“That’s evident. Dear senator kicked you to the curb after he took the other guy’s concession call. Loyalty is a one-way street with him.”
“The man had his reasons.”
“Such as?”
“His handlers determined that I wouldn’t mix well with the high-toned set.”
“Your record of brutality doesn’t play so well outside of the brotherhood, in other words.”
“In exactly those other words.”
“Half a decade later, Redlick doesn’t call, he doesn’t write. You and the rest of the erstwhile band of merry men may take the rap for his misdeeds. Instead of sticking the knife into his kidney for revenge, which is completely your brand, you play the faithful servant to the end. Strange.”
“There’s one item on my ledger I’d be happy to clear, in case the curtain is really falling.” Adeyemi uncapped the bottle. “Happy to pawn it off on you, to put it bluntly.”
I covered my glass.
“My sister’s kid lived in western New York, in Horseheads.” He poured my share on top of his own dose. “Emphasis on the past tense. Sean Pruitt. He worked on the Jeffers Large Particle Collider Project. Heard of it?”
The Jeffers Project received significant news coverage in its heyday. A complicated undertaking from financial and political perspectives. I recalled controversy swirling around cost overruns, corruption, and safety protocols. My expertise on the subject could fit in a thimble. In broad strokes: supercolliders, colloquially known as atom smashers, are devices that generate electromagnetic fields to accelerate charged particles at high velocity along underground circuits. Some are pint-size and housed in basement facilities; others, like the Hadron, require miles of specially prepared tunnels to achieve the most dramatic effects. The Jeffers Project had occupied the latter end of the scale. The ultimate goals of such a sprawling and costly undertaking? To create a powerful tool for the furtherance of research of particle physics that would, in turn, spur similar advances in the fields of industrial and biomedical technologies.
“The U.S. version of the Hadron Collider,” I said.
“Brainchild of several East Coast billionaires. Gerry spearheaded the initiative and brought a partnership proposal to the government. He was tight with what seemed like half of Congress before he dove into politics. He and the president went way back too. The Feds funneled in a sizable chunk of dough with a minimum of oversight. Everybody on the ground floor was guaranteed a seat at the table when it came time to divvy resources for scientific and commercial research projects. It didn’t get that far.”
“I imagine there was money to be made for certain parties whether or not it ever reached the finish line,” I said. “No part of the buffalo goes to waste when it comes to corporate profiteering.”
He nodded along.
“The Jeffers Project represented over forty miles of tunnels and installations at Davis-Bacon wages, baby. Bribery, kickbacks, double-dealing. Something for everybody. You’re right. Pockets were getting lined, win, lose, or draw.”
“We mustn’t neglect infrastructure,” I said. “Prostitution and gambling. Drugs. The real support an army of laborers, technicians, and overseers would cherish most.” I didn’t need to be an ex-mob associate to savvy this truth. I’d lived in a state famous for its oil pipeline, maritime industry, and construction empires. Pimps and dealers can still make a fortune in Alaska.
“I have a good, good feeling. You understand the ways of the world.”
“What went wrong besides the stuff in the papers? Infighting?”
“Infighting, for sure,” he said. “The billionaires are rivals who set aside differences, but peace didn’t last. Place was also cursed as the pharaoh’s tomb. Like I said, my nephew worked there. Had a cushy gig in the Special Operations department, counterespionage. Which I kinda sorta arranged after he begged me. Relentless kid. He died on-site.”
“Cloak and dagger. It got rough?”
“The job was less glamorous than it sounds. He sat on his ass so much, he grew hemorrhoids.”
“What happened?”
“Tragedy, sayeth the corporate overlords,” he said. “Sean committed suicide. The site was under construction for eleven years. There were eight fatal accidents before Sean died—trench collapses, vehicle crashes, an explosion or two. A suspicious person might fantasize about a connection between Sean’s death and those accidents. I’m not quite that paranoid, but I can’t speak for your state of mind. Congress said no más and reneged on their funding pledge. The billionaires weren’t willing to absorb the funding deficit. Project died with a whimper.”
“Case closed,” I said.
“Nailed shut. Insurance didn’t kick about the fact Sean offed himself. Paid his wife to the penny. Except, my sister isn’t sanguine about the ME’s findings. She has a legit gripe. ‘Suicide’ was convenient for the company. Death by misadventure would’ve opened them to more liability.”
“And misadventure suggests a whole world of sinister possibilities,” I said.
“Either way, local PD and Feds conducted a shitty investigation. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Par for the course, considering nobody wanted to step on corporate toes. But when it’s your flesh and blood . . .”
“The wife good with the verdict?”
“She gives nary a fuck. Linda got her pot of gold.”
“Obviously you checked her finances, made sure there weren’t any outsize withdrawals . . .”
