Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  As she started up the sandy trail that led to the road out of the state park, she heard a loud thump to the north.

  It had to be thunder from an isolated thunderstorm. It had to be.

  Chapter 37

  Mary Lou walked all the way back to Highway 50 and then across the causeway and bridge to Ocean City. She was careful to avoid contact with anyone, ducking away when she could to stay out of the headlights of passing motorists, fearing especially the kind of person who would be interested in picking up a hitchhiker at such a late hour.

  Instead of going directly to Leonard’s dock, she walked the back streets to their little house, which seemed undisturbed from when they had left it. Opening the front door, she went directly to her husband’s body. In the gloom, he seemed merely asleep, and the thought of that made tears come into her eyes.

  But there was no time for that. She went to one pocket of his jeans, taking out his wallet and removing a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. Returning the billfold, she dug into another pocket and took out his keys, quickly finding the one she sought.

  Leonard had taught her how to drive a motorcycle years before. Starting the big engine of the Harley, she glided through the darkened town at low speed, keeping noise to a minimum.

  To her surprise, there was no one at the dock. The terrorists’ van was where they had left it.

  The Harley had a big wrench in the tool kit at the back. She smashed the van’s side window, grabbed up the backpack, taking a quick look inside to make sure the money had not been removed. Climbing back on the Harley, she sought again the back streets, turning frequently to make sure she wasn’t being followed, then headed north on the main drag out of town, not stopping until she crossed the Delaware line at Fenwick Island.

  Pulling behind an all-night gas station, she carefully examined the contents of the backpack.

  The terrorist boss had lied to Bear. By her count, there was only about thirty-one thousand dollars in there. Still, it was a start. Along the way, she could pick up another ten, or maybe twenty, selling the Harley.

  She knew exactly where she’d go—her favorite place in the whole damn country—Panama City, Florida. She’d stash her money somewhere and get a job waitressing—if not there, maybe down in Mexico Beach or Port St. Joe. She doubted anyone would come looking for her. Who’d pursue a murder warrant on her for killing the likes of Bear Gergen?

  Gassing up the Harley, she continued north to Bethany, turning west on Highway 26 and following that road inland to the back roads out in the bean fields.

  Maybe she’d get married again. She couldn’t possibly do any worse than Leonard Ruger.

  Westman figured that any survivors of the fight at the airport would go back to the dock from which they’d taken the pontoon boat and the personal watercraft. They’d have vehicles there and who knows what else. But instead he steered toward the concrete seawall by the parking lot where they’d left the Wrangler. He still had the keys. He needed to be very mobile.

  The Wrangler was low on gas, but there was enough for the moment. Ultimately, he planned to drive to Cat’s house and wait. What happened right now was completely beyond his control.

  He wanted to make a pass by the rental-boat dock, if only to see what their adversaries might have left behind. Turning into the dead-end street, he killed his headlights, proceeding slowly without them.

  There was a van badly parked at the near end of the dock. Stopping well short of it, Westman turned off his engine and stepped out of the Jeep.

  The area looked deserted, but then he saw movement. Someone was in the rear of the van, looking for something. After several minutes, the figure backed out and opened the front door of the vehicle, searching under the seat there. It was a man, the same stocky man Westman had seen on the boat at the airport—the same who had killed his confederate and then fled. Bertolucci.

  Stepping back from the van, he stood a moment, arms folded, head down, thinking.

  Westman had no idea how the man had made his way back here, but he was clearly frustrated at not finding what he had come for. He slammed the van’s door shut.

  Moving quietly back to the Jeep, Westman hid behind it. If Bertolucci came by on foot, Erik would follow him walking. If he drove, Westman could in a moment be right behind him.

  If the man chose to depart by boat, Westman would be out of luck. But he guessed the man had had his fill of boats.

  There was the sound of an engine. Headlights came on and the van came rushing up the street. One of the windows had been broken open. Keeping the Wrangler’s lights off, Erik moved out in pursuit.

  Captain Baldessari heard what seemed to be his phone ringing. He squinted at his alarm clock, wondering if the hour was wrong or if the ringing of the phone was a hallucination. As the realization sunk in that neither could possibly be the case, he rose wearily and went to the telephone, sinking into a nearby armchair before finally picking up.

  As he feared, it was Colonel Baker. “Baldessari?”

  Who else would answer his phone? “Yes, sir.”

  “I just got a call from the general.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There was a mishap on the main runway tonight.”

  Had he heard sirens? “Yes, sir. Anything serious?”

  “No explosion. Damn thing was nearly bone-dry on fuel. A C-130 they sent here as part of the National Guard contingent.”

  “Any fatalities?”

  “Two dead. Don’t know the details. Anyway, that’s not why the general called. He wants me at the Pentagon at 10 A.M.”

  “The Pentagon?”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No, sir.” As Baldessari thought upon it, that was a lie. He knew very well why they wanted Baker in Washington. “Maybe something to do with the terrorist attacks.”

  “Hmmm.” A silence intruded.

  “Do you want me to come with you, Colonel?”

  “No. I’m supposed to come alone.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Another pause. “You think this may have something to do with that old guy and his bomb?”

  “Couldn’t say, sir.”

  “They said the dead in the C-130 were civilians.”

  “Why would civilians be in a C-130?”

  “Maybe that’s what they want to know.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with this, Colonel.”

  “Okay, Baldessari. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Baldessari hung up, then stretched out his legs, staring up at the ceiling. Some mornings were better than others. This was a lovely morning.

  The van went up the main highway almost as far as Fenwick Island, then turned abruptly into the parking area of a cheap motel. Westman continued past a few blocks, then made a U-turn, returning to the motel but parking in front of a closed coin laundry next door.

  There was no sign of Bertolucci. Westman assumed he had entered one of the rooms. There was only one with a light on—along the second-floor walkway.

  “Sit down, Turko.”

  There were two of them in the room, Special Agent Payne and another man. They had brought containers of coffee, but none for Turko. As they were occupying the two chairs in the room, Payne motioned him to a seat on the bed. Turko declined, continuing to stand, a short distance from the door.

  “Everything is over,” Turko said. “They’re all dead. It is the end of things.”

  “And Pec?” Payne asked.

  “He is dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “Pec got us mixed up with some American criminals. They said they had a hydrogen bomb that had been recovered from the sea bottom. We went to look at it and ran up against the U.S. Coast Guard.”

  “The Coast Guard?”

  “Yes.”

  Payne shook his head. “The fucking Coast Guard.” He looked to his companion, doubtless also an FBI agent, then back to Turko. “Pec was killed in a gunfight?”

  “The beginning o
f one, yes.”

  “This was not supposed to happen, Mr. Turko. You were supposed to deliver him over to me. That was the agreement from the git-go. Otherwise, you’d have been in a cage at Guantanamo long time ago.”

  “The situation changed.”

  “All you had to do was call. Simple fucking phone call. No matter what the situation. I could have made the bust. We might have taken him alive. It would have been the most important terrorist arrest within the United States since 9/11. He had a lot to tell us, Turko. A hell of a lot.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.”

  Payne rubbed his chin. “Why did you ask for this meet, Turko? I expected you to be halfway to Mexico by now.”

  “I did my job. I set the explosive charges so the attacks on the Bay Bridge and the nuclear plant didn’t work. I prevented Pec from doing many bad things.”

  “But that wasn’t the deal, Turko. That isn’t why I took you in and kept you out of trouble. I wanted Pec. You were supposed to deliver him.”

  “There was no chance to call you. I’d have been shot if I tried. I did my job. I saved many lives. I would like my money. You promised me money and transport out of here.”

  “If you gave me Pec,” Payne said. “But you didn’t.”

  The other man shifted slightly in his chair, a move Turko read instantly. “How did Pec get killed?” the man said.

  “I shot him.” The remark was calculated. It would prompt them to do what they were doubtless intending to do no matter what, but it would stun them for a moment.

  In that moment, Turko dropped to the floor, yanked out his own gun, and rolled.

  Westman positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. At the sound of a gunshot, he started up the steps, then froze. There were two more shots in rapid succession, then a fourth.

  Moving to the top of the stairs, he all of a sudden saw Bertolucci coming along the gallery toward him, a pistol in his hand. Westman now had his automatic out as well. Both weapons were held to the fore, but neither fired.

  The walkway was lighted. They could see each other’s faces.

  “You were at the Ocean City airport,” Turko said. “You’re one of the Coast Guard men.”

  “Yes. And you’re Bertolucci.”

  A painfully long silence followed. Westman’s pistol began to grow heavy in his hand. There was no round in the chamber. He’d have to slide back the receiver before he could fire.

  “I mean to leave here alive,” Turko said. “It would be wise to kill you first, but I think I don’t need to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you might kill me first.”

  “What I must do is arrest you.”

  “That is something you can’t do now. I will not shoot you, but you must let me pass.”

  “I can’t. There were gunshots up here.”

  “Yes. Room Number Nine. There are two dead men in there. I was working for them but they tried to kill me. Now, please, step aside and put away your weapon. I need to leave. Police will be coming.”

  “Who are the dead men?”

  “Agents of the FBI. You have better ones.”

  Westman reacted with anger and bafflement. This man was working for the FBI?

  He had put himself off guard. Bertolucci took a swift step forward and kneed Westman in the groin, quickly following that with a push down the stairs. Westman’s head thumped painfully on four or five steps as he slid downward. His pistol slipped from his hand. Bertolucci picked it up and flung it across the parking lot, then stuck his own weapon in his belt and stepped over Erik, hesitating once he reached the stair below.

  “Why are you letting me live now?” Westman asked.

  “Because I want to tell you something. I am a friend to the U.S. I save the lives of thousands of your people that others were trying to kill. You tell that to your government.”

  With that, he ran down the remaining stairs and to his car. Westman had only just managed to sit up when the other turned from the parking lot onto the main coast road, squealing tires and heading north.

  Chapter 38

  Cat lay facedown in the water, watching a barracuda move along the reef, pursuing its murderous trade—the raison d’etre of all denizens of the deep.

  It was late morning and the high sun was bright and hot upon her back. The water was warm and of an uncommon clarity. She felt rather like some unearthly angel hovering over the creatures of the reef below, as though the sea here were but another form of air.

  There were more than ninety cays and major islands in the Caicos chain of the Turks and Caicos Islands. Except for Providenciales, Parrot Cay, and a couple of others, they were all uninhabited. The one lying a few hundred yards from where she floated had once been uninhabited, but it now was home to two visiting Americans—Americans who now found themselves happier than they had been in a very long time.

  The barracuda was large—a four-foot length of gliding, sinuous silver with nasty mouth and flat, predatory eyes. It moved effortlessly, as though propelled solely by will, cruising along the coral rock. Other fish, innocent and strangely unconcerned, darted and fluttered all around it, their myriad brilliant hues—gold and royal blue and crimson, green and yellow and mauve with black stripes—dazzling to the eye, a marked contrast to the barracuda’s obscuring paleness. The big fish continued steadily on among them, as though shopping. Following a curve of reef, it came finally to a spot directly beneath Cat. There it halted. Then, with the merest flick of edge of fin, it pivoted, tail going down, head rising, its eyes fixed on hers.

  She stared hard back through her snorkel mask, but had nothing to say to it. She was observing its world, but keeping out of it, the stillness of her body imparting this message.

  The terrible fish seemed to understand. Head going down, tail rising, it leveled itself and turned and glided close to the caves and crannies of the reef, hesitating, then darting into a patch of bright red weed. In two snaps, it consumed its find—what had been life gone in an instant. Then it lifted and moved on, leaving the stage. This was the daily business of the beautiful reef. Killing. Eating. Hiding.

  Cat altered her own position, lowering her legs and raising her head above water, lifting her mask to her brow, looking to seaward, where a small sailboat lay at anchor, its sail neatly bundled on the tiny deck.

  Westman sat by the tiller, content to wait for her, but looking landward with unusual interest.

  Decades before, the cay had been farmed after a fashion, but had long since become derelict and was completely deserted but for them, though it was just three small islands from Providenciales. The British government here, headquartered many miles away on Grand Turk, was allowing them this habitation in the belief they were conducting a naturalist’s study of the indigenous iguanas and other wildlife.

  It was a blissful place, not merely for the abundance of its beauty but for the gentle rhythms of their life upon it. They lived without electricity in the shelter of a large and very waterproof tent, their possessions amounting to little more than some kerosene lamps, a battery-powered CD player, a few CDs, a large number of books, two cameras, sketch pads and watercolors, fishing rod, and some clothes—most of which remained packed.

  She was naked. He wore a pair of shorts.

  Westman’s boat was a Laser, all of seventeen feet in length. It had a centerboard that allowed for easy beaching. The main wharf on Provo, as Providenciales was known locally, was only an hour or so away, depending on the weather. When in need of bottled water, kerosene for the lamps, or groceries, they’d go to Turtle Bay on Provo’s seaward side. But these trips were infrequent and their stays there very brief.

  They occasionally had visitors, for the most part stray tourists, but the nudity that had become their custom usually warded such people off. Cat wondered if his concern meant that more of these intruders had come.

  Returning her mask to her face, she flattened out in the water again, drifting, observing the colorful tableau below disinterestedly now
. Finally, she closed her eyes, withdrawing from all but the warmth of sun and sea and the gentle, limpid motion of the slight swells and breeze.

  There was a snapping sound, and at once her head shot up. Westman had raised and sheeted his main, filling it with wind and steering toward her.

  He hove to a few feet away, turning into the wind, causing the main to flap noisily.

  “We have company,” he said. “Not tourists. Do you want to greet them?”

  She looked to the distant shore, making out vague figures standing on the beach. She had heard a motorboat earlier. It must have landed on the other side of the cay.

  “No, thank you. I’ll swim to shore.”

  “Go to the dune. I’ll join you when it’s clear.”

  He turned the boat into the wind, jolting forward. She watched him take a single tack toward the island, then began swimming her shorter course to the nearer beach.

  Coming ashore on a swift beam reach, point of sail, Westman pulled up the centerboard in time for the craft to slide far up the sand, then snapped loose the mainsheet and let the large sail flap free. Hopping over the side, he pulled the sailboat higher up onto the beach, lowering the mainsail and bending it over the boom. Securing the canvas with a length of dock line, he tied it fast, then went to meet his uninvited guests.

  One he knew—Charlie Marantes, a fellow special agent in the Coast Guard Investigative Service who was assigned to the Southeast Region and based in San Juan. Marantes had been with Westman and dePayse in the La Perla action. Another Erik recognized was Thor Holm, with the Navy Criminal Investigative Service. The third visitor he had never seen before.

  Marantes wore slacks and a polo shirt. The Navy man was dressed in a sport coat, slacks, and open-collared sport shirt. The mystery man was similarly garbed but was actually wearing a tie.

  “Hello, Charlie,” Westman said.

  Marantes nodded. “Erik.”

  “Was it hard to find me?”