by Vince Milam
Townsend made a few final adjustments and turned toward the park’s exit path.
“And I do not care for the flippant responses, Mr. Lee. This is serious business.”
“I know it is. But it’s not my business.”
She stopped her turn.
“We shall see. There is one last thing.”
“Promise?”
A smart-ass answer, but she’d rolled over me with the weight of head spook. And a heavy dash of big-picture superiority.
“No. But you have my contact number. I would appreciate yours.”
A curt statement, more a demand than request. I could have refused, walked away. But I provided the encrypted number, and she entered it into her phone. A parting gesture, goodwill. Parting on terms that may not have been ‘hail fellow well met’ but weren’t acrimonious. I’d had my say. She’d had hers.
As the security detail corralled Townsend out of the park, I circled wide and walked through landscape foliage. Watched from the darkest of shadows until they departed. I waited, silent, for fifteen minutes. Ensured they hadn’t left anyone to kiss Case Lee a goodbye. Helluva way to live.
Chapter 29
Home. The Ace’s diesel engine chugged its blue-collar rhythm, a slight sway delivered by the wakes of passing workboats. A northeastern breeze ruffled papers strewn about the wheelhouse. I seldom traveled at night, but a collected air of intrigue and manipulation and worldviews through an opaque lens propelled me south. Move, slide away, disappear. Slip into the world of sedate movement, slow-paced life, and friendly waves from tiny hamlets along the Ditch. Home.
Down the Elizabeth River and into Currituck Sound, Albemarle Sound, rivers and dug canals, headed south. Meandering past the small villages, stopping when and where I wished. Charleston, Mom, and CC were my sole destination.
I traveled the entire night and day after departing Chesapeake. Escape. There were plenty of downsides and inferences for such a word, but tack those on someone else. My near-term life path lay ahead, marked with buoys, bridges, and a slowed-down clock.
I tied up in an unnamed slough once deep into North Carolina and occupied the foredeck throne. Checked messages with the companions of Grey Goose and the nocturnal sounds of insects and aquatic splashes. Stars were flung by the bushel full overhead, the cool of a springtime night.
I messaged Mom and let her know of my expected arrival in three days. Ample time for her to line up the next potential life partner for her son. Those thoughts brought a big smile, a lifted glass for the world’s greatest mom, and a whispered “thank you” to the infinite space over my head.
A message from Marcus. “Believe I never said thank you for cleaning up that mess. Thank you. Now get your butt back here. Soon.”
“Case Lee Pest Removal Service,” I replied. “Available twenty-four seven.”
Catch dropped a line. “Bo split. Don’t know where. The moron won’t reply to messages. You try.”
I did. “Where’d you land?” I asked. “Enquiring minds want to know.”
I didn’t receive a response, either. Bo being Bo.
Time passed. Time hitched to rhythms of sun, tides, wind, and the low growl of the Ace’s engine. I’d overnight at hidden spots or dock at Ditch hamlets. Procure food and fuel. Visit the lone bar, share a drink with a couple of locals. Pass miles of moss-draped oaks lining isolated stretches. Time on the Intracoastal Waterway. Ditch life.
I dropped into Charleston harbor on the appointed day and docked at a regular out-of-the-way pier. Mom called as I secured the Ace, informing me that we would grill burgers for lunch. “We” consisted of Mom, CC, Mr. Peter Brooks—Mom’s new beau—and a young lady who would be a perfect fit for the prodigal son.
The reunion, joyous as ever. Mom, CC, and I hugged, laughed, teased, and hugged again. Tinker Juarez leapt and barked while we held each other. Fuel for the soul. Big-time.
Peter proved a fine and good man. Years in the insurance business, he approached retirement. And encouraged me to explore the possibilities.
“Don’t know if you’d view such a career as daunting or boring, Case.” Peter stood over the grill, sautéing onions in a cast-iron skillet. He possessed a gentle manner and great smile. “But it’s solid work. And provides a needed service. And you meet great folks.”
“I can see the appeal. Don’t know if I’m the salesman type.”
He sprinkled spices on the raw burger patties. “Not selling. Providing a service.”
“Don’t doubt it. Just don’t know if it’s for me.”
Solid advice on his part. And good for him, whether it came from a personal pitch or at Mom’s suggestion. What I most appreciated about him was his respect for Mom, the deference toward her in conversation and action. And he treated CC with love and patience.
As the meat cooked, CC and I held hands and chatted. She’d press against my arm at regular intervals and hum a song, interrupting herself to reveal one of life’s small miracles observed.
A springtime breeze lifted and dropped the long strands of Spanish moss hanging from the yard’s oak trees. Flowers bloomed, their scent overridden by cooking food and fresh-cut grass. A fine day.
Dr. Margaret Carter arrived, bearing a six-pack of craft beer and a buttermilk pie. She proved a very attractive and engaging lady, who pulled out the partner possibility meter early.
“You mother tells me you live on a boat,” she said as Peter cooked and cold beers were consumed. Mom pulled CC away so Margaret and I could converse in semiprivacy. Tinker held high-alert vigilance at the grill.
“I do.”
“And you do some kind of private contracting?”
“Private investigator. For a variety of clients.”
“Anyone I’d know?”
Well, there’s the CIA as of late, Margaret. “Probably not. Boring stuff, corporate sleuthing.”
“So you work contract to contract?”
“That’s right. Keeps me on my toes.” I smiled, an attempt at mild levity. Hearing a profile of myself from another person didn’t help highlight potential partner stability. I was pretty sure I failed moving the needle on the Margaret meter.
After burgers, I said goodbye to Margaret with no plans for a subsequent date. Mom cast a jaundiced eye my way as I asked CC if she’d like to go out. I borrowed Mom’s car, CC and Tinker piled in, and we headed for a toy store.
“Let’s buy a kite,” I said. The breeze was perfect for kite flying, and CC’s eyes lit up.
The store presented quite the selection. Color rather than design was the prime determinate for CC. She stared, touched, and ruminated. Asked the occasional question.
“This one. Too bright? Will it scare things?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
Five minutes later, “Is it okay for two colors? Or three?”
“Absolutely okay.”
Time failed registering, and if my sister took three hours making a decision, it sat fine with me. She opted for a green-and-yellow one. And chose a yellow kite string spool, rounding out the package.
Waterfront Park overlooked the wide Cooper River, which ran along the east side of the Charleston peninsula. Palm trees lined the long river walk. Fronds lifted and fell with the wind. We found a grassy slope nearby.
She held the string spool and I stood twenty paces away, lifting the kite.
“Ready?” I asked.
She thought long and hard, then nodded, a tinge of apprehension at such an endeavor. The kite shot skyward, she shrieked with joy, and I hustled back and helped let out line.
“Not too far!” she said. “It might never come back!”
Thirty minutes later, and with much discussion, we settled on a good height for the kite.
“It keeps pulling,” she said, a voice filled with joy. But she held the spool with both hands, gripped tight. Tinker flopped down and rolled in the sun.
“It wants you to know it’s there and everything is okay.”
“Are you sure?”
&
nbsp; “I’m sure, my love.”
We soon sat on the slope, lazing. CC between my legs as she lounged back against my chest. I stuck the spool handle into the soft earth and tied a half hitch around the spool, securing it. The string danced and vibrated near us. Tinker Juarez sat between CC’s legs and lifted his nose skyward as she scratched his chin. The breeze carried spring sunshine and new growth.
“The roses started growing flowers. Mom calls them blooms. But they’re flowers.”
“You once told me they were beautiful.”
“So beautiful. Red and white and red plus white.”
“Do they smell good?”
“So good.”
A bundle of young kids raced below us and yelled with the sheer joy of running. Tinker sneezed.
“Bless you, Tinker Juarez,” CC said.
I kissed the back of her head. Her hair smelled of vanilla.
“Case?”
“Yes?”
“You are supposed to bless people when they sneeze.”
“Bless you, Tinker.”
“Tinker Juarez.”
“Bless you, Tinker Juarez.”
On cue, Tinker flopped back and lay across CC’s leg. His tail tip wagged a lazy, offbeat rhythm. She scratched his chest and a rear leg extended. Dog heaven.
“I like him. Do you like him?”
“Mr. Brooks? Peter?”
“Yes. Peter.”
CC shifted, twisted her head, and viewed my face waiting for an answer.
“Yes. I like him.”
“Tinker Juarez does, too.”
“That’s good.”
“That is good.”
We watched folks meander along the river walk. A chop tossed the occasional river whitecap. Three sailboats plied the water, leaning with the wind. Halyards slapped as one passed nearby.
“I have a new friend. At school.”
“Who?”
“At school.”
CC spent a part of each weekday at a school for the mentally challenged. They painted, told stories, and watched movies. She enjoyed it, although no dogs were allowed. The lone bone of contention.
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Case! Of course! Elizabeth.”
“Pretty name.”
“What makes a person a friend?”
I mulled it over.
“Perhaps loyalty. Do you know that word?”
“Maybe.”
It was CC’s verbal clue she didn’t understand a word or concept well.
“Loyalty is when you believe in someone during the good things and bad things. And they believe in you during the good things and bad things. Like Tinker Juarez.”
She chewed on this for a while. “Then she’s my friend.”
“That’s good.”
“That is good.”
Tinker rose, shook, sat, and laid his head on CC’s shoulder, pressed against her neck. His jet-black nose blew inches from my face, his eyes closed. She hugged him. I hugged them both.
“Sometimes I squeeze, Case.”
“What do you squeeze?”
“My inside. When I’m very happy. Like now.”
“Does it help to squeeze?”
“It does. Sometimes. I squeeze it in so it will stay. Like now.”
“Me too.” She plucked the kite string, felt the tug. I nuzzled the nape of her neck.
She hummed a snippet of a song. “Sometimes it doesn’t work.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes it does.”
“That makes it special.”
I squeezed as hard as I knew how. This moment, frozen, stood special and magical and healing. Away, away—the ugliness, troubles, and pain. This time and space pinpoint floated above it all. And filled me with a grace and power that knocked the rough edges off my existence.
Such moments cannot last, squeeze as I might. Two Boston terriers, leashed, passed below us. They stood on hind legs, pulled against their collars, and checked CC’s dog. Tinker turned his head, paid them little mind, and sneezed again.
“Bless you, Tinker Juarez.”
“Bless you, Tinker Juarez. And bless you, my love. Bless you.”
Chapter 30
Events revealed, ugly facts presented, and my world exploded.
“Your services are needed, Mr. Lee.”
Director Townsend. I’d returned from Mom’s, settled back on the Ace of Spades, Grey Goose in hand.
“Don’t swim those waters, Director. We’ve gone over that.”
“You will note I did not say required. Needed.”
I waited. There was no required component of our relationship. She wouldn’t pull my strings. But her call, out of the blue, sent me upright in the foredeck throne.
“Case Officer Abigail Rice has been taken hostage.”
Oh man. Abbie. She got too close to the fire. Either Port Moresby or—crazier still—Kiunga. Abbie. Hostage. But there was no rationale for my services, and no reason for this call. Because the obvious answer blared large and sure and well honed.
“Send Delta Force.”
“There are significant issues with such an action.”
“Tell me.” Hackles rose. This was no time for spook talk. Just tell me what the hell went down.
“JI holds her hostage. At their gold camp. She was kidnapped in Kiunga and transported.”
“Still don’t see your issues. And I told her not to go farther than Port Moresby.”
“What you told Officer Rice is hardly the point. She was allowed, as a hostage, one call on her satellite phone. For a specific purpose.”
“And?”
“She called her team lead. Proper protocol.”
I waited. Delta Force specialized in hostage rescue. Send the troops, Marilyn. Go get Abbie.
“JI has offered a trade,” she continued.
“Trade?”
“Officer Rice in exchange for another party.”
“Who?”
“You, Mr. Lee. You.”
Blood hammered in my ears. A banshee wail sounded, deep inside. The bounty. Come home to roost.
I was ID’d in Kiunga. Think, Case. Think. The bounty. They wanted the million bucks. But it didn’t tie, didn’t mesh. JI would want the bounty, sure. But they didn’t have the expertise to ID me, connect the dots. They had an agent in Kiunga, maybe. A big maybe. But not facial recognition software. No freakin’ way. Only a big player held such expertise. And the Abbie/Case connection. Who knew of that? Who knew we were associated? A major player. Had to be. Hellfire, Abbie—I warned you about Kiunga.
Synapses fired, white noise dissipated. The fury and mental klaxons silenced. It came together. Clarity. A degree of calm.
The warning from the Clubhouse. The man at the Port Moresby airport. The suave FSB agent on the hotel veranda. The Russians. The damn Russians. They funded JI’s efforts. Their style. Manipulation and revenge. Sweeten the pot with the head of Case Lee. A million bucks. And knock off a CIA officer in the process. Those SOBs.
Abbie. Wrapped in a jungle camp, beaten and abused. Then a personal thought, a selfish thought, and a painful blade of guilt sliced. It was fair odds the Russians offered me up because they knew the bounty funding source. The Suriname job taught me they knew of the price on my head. The question was whether they’d reach into their own pockets out of simple revenge or actually knew the paymaster. The bastards. Either way, they would pay. Yeah, they would pay.
“All right. Let’s cut the crap. There’s only one issue.”
She waited.
“The Russians.” I tossed the elephant on the table.
She remained silent. She knew. A variety of sources drawn from, including code words from Abbie on her one phone call. Marilyn Townsend knew.
“They’re engaged with this mess. Their operators are involved. And if you send Delta Force, a lukewarm conflict could escalate into a hot one, quick. Delta Force versus Spetsnaz. Military versus military. And it escalates from there.”
“You do grasp the
situation. Understand, however, this is a need. There is no leverage or demand from the Company. Your decision.”
I knew the answer to my next question. “And if I don’t go? Don’t rescue her?”
“Our field officers understand the risks.” She paused. “A much larger concern—one you have elaborated—prevents us from moving with military force. A well-established line drawn, Mr. Lee. One we cannot cross.”
“And I’m a degree of separation. The need. My choice.”
She remained silent.
“Well, I’ve been there,” I said. “Know the turf. JI didn’t kidnap her. She was delivered.”
“I suspect so.”
The Russians nabbed Abbie in Kiunga. Delivered her upriver. Townsend and I both knew it. The Russians had gambled on the exact outcome of the current conversation. Those bastards.
“I’ll call you back within the hour,” I said. “And if I go, Director—a big if—it’s my ass on the line. Me.”
She remained silent. We both knew there wasn’t an “if.”
“So I expect the full weight of the Company for supplies and logistics,” I continued.
“Understood.” She hung up.
Abbie. The admonition to stay away, ignored. I wasn’t surprised. Abbie would get her hands dirty and dive in. Oh man. Rescue Abbie. And a shot at finding the bounty’s source. Was I being played again? Shake that crap off, Case. Abbie. Bounty paymaster. Think, you moron. Think.
I considered, and slapped away, the recent change in the Case and Abbie relationship. Our new relationship. She had played me. A bitter pill. But a powerful sense of obligation shoved all other factors aside and found footing on one fact. Abbie was held hostage. By a band of terrorists.
JI. There were too many of them. Well armed, they presented too much firepower. Suicide for me and sure death for Abbie if I tackled this alone. I squeezed my head, focused.
There was only one answer. The CIA couldn’t send Delta. But I could.
I dialed Catch. Explained the situation. Included the reason the Company wouldn’t send Delta.
“So it’s a hostage rescue. A friend. A friend in the middle of a hell storm,” I said. “And a shot at finding who’s backing the price on our heads.”
