Gone.
Eight Bells. Two sailors on the deck of a ship, wearing foul weather gear and holding navigation instruments in their hands, a portrait of survival.
Gone.
The Gulf Stream. The lonely man, on the slippery slope of his damaged vessel, looking for help, but the broaching sharks in the foreground tell of another ending.
Gone.
All of them. Three historic and priceless paintings, right before my eyes, almost within reach of my hands, just seconds away from being rescued by me. Gone. Just before I stepped in the Lumina, I saw something metallic on the ground. It was my 9 mm Beretta, and for whatever good it was, I picked it up and returned it to my shoulder holster. As I closed the Lumina's door, I felt like bawling.
Felix drove up the driveway out to the street, and people were coming out of the houses, looking at us, the expression on their faces demanding to know what was going on, but Felix didn't stop. There was a crack in the windshield and scratches on the hood of the car from the falling debris.
I took a deep breath. "Where'd you find the keys?"
"In my rear pocket," Felix said. "Idiot never bothered to strip them off me. Guess you and I know why, hunh? He never thought I'd be driving again tonight, would even get near a car, except maybe in the trunk."
"Felix, the paintings---"
"I know, and it's over, Lewis," he said. "We can't do anything about them. There's other stuff going on. We've got a lot to do, and the first thing to do is to dump this car. People back there are going to tell the cops and firefighters that they saw a Lumina haul ass away from a house that just blew up. Your Rover around here?"
I gave him the directions, and in less than a handful of minutes, he had pulled up behind my Range Rover. Felix got out and said, "Get your handkerchief out and wipe down the door handle, anything else we touched. Good enough crime lab might find something eventually, but that'll still give us some time."
While I was doing just that, he went to the trunk of the car, opened it up, and pulled out a black gym bag and a larger black zippered duffel bag.
"Rented under fake ID, Felix?"
"Yeah," he said, slamming the trunk down. "One of the few bright things I've been doing here lately."
With the duffel bag slung over his back and gym bag in hand, he went back to the front seat of the car and inserted the keys into the ignition and shut the door. "With some luck, some kid will come by and take this baby for a joyride."
I looked around the quiet street and the suburban homes. "Unless the Crips are vacationing here this summer, you're dreaming. "
"Maybe so, but I'll still give it a try." Felix came up to the Rover just as I opened the door, and then he stopped, head cocked. Just a couple of streets over, the sound of sirens.
"Time to go?" I asked.
"Time to go," he said.
We got in and got the hell out.
As I drove, Felix zippered open the gym bag, pulled out his own automatic pistol and checked the magazine and action. As I headed south, toward New Hampshire, I said, "What happened, Felix? How did Roger ambush you?"
He reinserted the magazine, worked the pistol's action so a round was in the chamber.
"He pulled me over." I got stuck behind a dark green Saab that had a bumper sticker: "Think Globally, Act Locally." I wondered what the driver would have thought about the global and local actions that just happened up on Landing Lane. As I slowed down, I looked at my hands and wrists. They had stopped bleeding. Superficial cuts probably, though my knees still ached.
"He did what?"
Felix kept his head down, as if he was trying to hide his humiliation. "He pulled me over, Lewis. Easiest trick in the book and I fell for it. Same trick that killed those guys in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in Chicago, except this time it wasn't a fake cop. It was a real one. Roger Krohn. I'm sorry to say, Lewis, he must have had your house under surveillance, because he caught up with me about twenty minutes after I dropped you off after our Boston trip. He pulled me over with his own car, which has blue lights in the radiator's grill, flashing headlights and siren. Being a well-mannered citizen --- and not wanting to screw anything up the day of the exchange --- I pulled over. I thought I had been speeding."
Then he looked up, his face haunted. "He opened the passenger's-side door and nailed me with a Taser, and when I was flailing around with thousands of volts going through me, he got me wrapped up. Then he got his black box working. The man likes his electricity, Lewis, and he made me drive to Maine, made me give up the house and made me call you."
"Felix, I ---"
His voice got stronger. "I don't want to talk about that anymore, Lewis. All right? Not now and not ever. It's over. I just want to talk about now."
"What do you mean, now?"
"I mean we're going to hunt him down tonight and kill him." I looked at the expression on his face and then I slowly pulled over and kept the engine running as we stopped by the side of the road. We had just crossed into Kittery.
"Say again?"
"You heard me." Felix pulled out a leather hip holster, and with his pistol in place, slid the pair into the side of his shorts.
"Felix, this has gone above and beyond anything that we can handle. We've got four dead bodies in the past couple of weeks ---- including your cousin --- and we just saw millions of dollars of art go up in smoke. In case you've forgotten, your ass was about one minute from getting blown away by Roger Krohn, and both our asses got tossed out of a house by a firebomb. Now you want to keep on hunting? Forget it."
He rummaged around in the duffel bag, his face still dark and puffy. "Don't you think Krohn might come back for a visit when he finds out we made it out of the house? You got a better idea?"
"Yeah. Call the cops. That's what they get paid for."
Felix started rubbing his temples with his fingers, his voice low and even. "Lewis, I don't have time for this, and if you don't agree with what I'm about to say, then I'm stepping out of here and renting or stealing a fucking car and then I'm going to go off on my own, much as I owe you for what you did back at the house. Got that?"
"It's gotten."
"Great." Felix raised his head, looked at me, and I stared right back at him. "Lewis, we don't have time. The man's a cop, and cops stick together. You start spinning a story about what Roger Krohn's been up to, and the cops are going to take time to check the facts. They're not going to rush out to pick up a brother officer. And by the time they look at the records and figure out, yeah, the guy is dirty, he'll be working on a tan somewhere in the Caribbean. Right now, he's about fifteen, twenty minutes ahead of us, and each minute you and I have this discussion means he can be another mile away. We've got a window of opportunity here to take care of business --- right this moment --- and I'm going to get going before the window is closed."
I thought furiously for a moment and said, "One phone call. To Diane Woods."
For the first time in a long time, I thought Felix was going to strike me. It came to me that he wouldn't have to steal another car, he would just have to punch out my lights and take the Rover. Easy enough, and I don't know why I hadn't thought of it earlier.
But he surprised me. ''All right. One phone call. But only if a phone booth's on the way. And you don't take more than a minute."
''Agreed,'' I said, and we were off, and I pulled over again after another mile, for I found my phone booth, in a Cumberland Farms parking lot. As I got out of the Rover, Felix said, "One minute," but I didn't answer and went to the booth and started dialing. The first call, to the police dispatcher, was a bust. Diane Woods was not on duty that night. I dialed her home number, and the ringing began.
"C'mon, c'mon," I whispered, but my demands went unmet. There was no answer at Diane Woods's. I looked over at Felix and his gaze was steady. I slammed the phone down, stalked back to the Rover and got in. Felix took out a blue Kevlar bulletproof vest and started undoing his shirt, and he said quietly, "You can let me borrow your Rover, and that'll be it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I've got to do it, Lewis. I can't let Roger Krohn keep on breathing after what he did to me today. I wouldn't be… I wouldn't be me anymore, and I will not allow that to happen. But you don't have to come along, Lewis. You've done enough for tonight. "
I held on to the Rover's steering wheel and heard myself say, "I've saved your butt once tonight, Felix. Don't be so eager to turn down my help."
I started the Rover up and we continued south. I looked up at the sky. It had become overcast, and it looked like rain.
We got to the condominium development where Roger Krohn lived about a half hour after that last stop at Cumberland Farms. Along the way, and with Felix's help, I had put on a second Kevlar vest that Felix had stored in his duffel bag. The vest was heavy and constricting under my shirt, and I felt leaden, like I was moving through thick syrup. At the condominium lot I cruised around for a minute or two, and I said, "It's not here."
"What? "
"Cameron Briggs's Audi. The one that Roger Krohn stole. It's not here."
Felix looked stubborn. "He could have ditched the car, or parked somewhere else. We're going in, Lewis."
I didn't argue. It was now 8 P.M. and the parking lot was fairly full. People were streaming away from the cooling sands of Tyler Beach, which were just across the street from Roger's condominium. A light mist had begun to fall and I knew from experience that in a few short minutes the beaches would be as empty as they were hundreds of years ago.
The condominium building was concrete and balconies with iron railings, and the roof was flat shingles. After parking in the rear we went through a back entrance, Felix leading the way, his automatic in his right hand, close to his side. I guess I was more shy, since my own pistol was still in my shoulder holster. We took the concrete steps two at a time, and heard rock music from a couple of the units as we went up to the third floor. Just before the third-floor landing Felix raised a hand and looked back at me. The expression on his face was one that I would almost pay money not to see again.
"This is the set," he said calmly. "I'll go in first and you're just providing cover, Lewis. Nothing serious when we get in. This is a snatch, pure and simple, and we just scare him enough to get him down to the Rover. Then we'll do a drive to my place and I'll take care of business later. Alone. All right? But if any shooting starts, aim for his trunk and keep on pulling the trigger until you empty the magazine. Don't let up. This isn't a goddamn arcade."
I nodded, breathing deeply, and I had my own pistol out by then and we went up to the landing. The corridor led off to the left. Roger's unit was right in front of us, and I pointed out the door. Felix motioned to me to get to the left side and he stepped back, now holding his 9 mm in both of his hands, fingers interlocked. He did a series of deep breaths, and I saw his face and muscles tense up, his skin turning red, and he did that for a couple of moments and then exhaled in a great ''paaaahhh!'' of air.
Then he leapt forward, almost bounding, and kicked out his right foot and yelled something, and slammed the door open. The damn thing nearly flew off its hinges. Felix got into the room, and I was right behind, crouching down. Felix moved so quickly that I had a problem keeping up with him. After a minute or two of going through the unit and popping open closet doors and looking under the bed and behind the couch and out on the balcony, Felix looked up at me and said, "Damn place is empty."
I reholstered my own weapon. "He's gone, Felix."
"Shit," Felix said. We went out on the balcony and Felix started muttering to himself, saying, ''Another hour to Logan, he might make it, but if I call down to Georgie, he and Bev, they might be able to check outgoing flights."
"Still chasing?" I asked.
"Yeah," Felix said. "He's out there, running, and I'm going to start making some calls here soon, throw out a net. Chances are the bastard's skulking back to Boston and will go to ground. This just makes it harder, Lewis. Oh, I'll catch up with him one of these days, because no one can hide forever, but I was hoping not to wait. I was looking forward to finishing everything tonight."
The view from the balcony showed the darkening and threatening sky to the east, where the lighthouse at White Island out on the Isles of Shoals was winking into existence. There were still some families on the sands below us, packing up under the mist, which was getting heavier with every passing minute. The view offered nothing to me, no thoughts of peace or serenity. Instead, I had that sickly feeling of relief, when you're approaching something awful that gets canceled at the last moment. Something like a high school math test you're not ready for, and the day of the test, school is canceled because of a boiler problem. Though you're relieved you don't have to take the test, you know that you still have to take it in another twenty-four hours and that those extra hours won't make a difference in how prepared you'll be. A postponement doesn't always equal bliss.
I had avoided Roger Krohn so far since we had left York. If I kept my mouth shut, I would be successful in avoiding him for the rest of my life, but I saw the tension and rage in Felix's face, and I couldn't let him live with that for days or weeks or months.
So I opened my mouth. "Felix?"
"Yeah?" Felix was leaning against the balcony railing, the skin around his wrists pasty white where the tape had torn away some skin and hair.
"I think he's still around here."
That got his attention, and he stood up. "You do? Why?"
"Think of who he is, Felix."
''A murderer and a torturer," he shot back. "Yeah, but he's also a thief. He steals things. He stole the paintings, and just after he shot Cameron Briggs, he stole that briefcase with the money. So where would a thief go tonight if he feels he's been successful in killing you and me and Cameron Briggs, and in destroying the safe house and the evidence? Where would he go, Felix?"
Felix started nodding, his eyebrows coming together as he realized what I was saying. "He'd have an opportunity for one more hit, and he'd take it."
"Right. Cameron Briggs's home. Full of antiques and paintings, and also holding the other half of the payment that Cameron brought to York tonight. He's probably right there at this moment, stripping the place clean."
But by then I was alone on the balcony. I went after Felix. When we got out into the corridor, a neighbor opened the door. He was a thin, wiry man with a wispy blond beard and wire-rimmed glasses. He called out, "What's going on?"
Felix gave the man a brusque reply. "Police business. Get back in and shut the door." I always knew that Felix's voice sometimes had a ring of authority, and this was proven to me again this evening. The door slammed shut as we raced down the concrete steps, and there were no more neighborly questions.
We were on Atlantic Avenue, heading north, and I turned to Felix and said, "Do you think he was telling the truth back there?"
''About what?"
''About becoming police chief. About running the town, getting mixed up with drug trafficking and the tourists. Not caring about the paintings, just seeing them as evidence."
''Absolutely,'' he said. "Roger told me, uh, when we were in the Congregational church parking lot, waiting for you to show up, he kept on repeating something, that it would all be worth it in the end. Something about running a department and having the whole town to himself, every summer. Having more money than he would know what to do with."
By now I had the Rover's windshield wipers on, for the mist had changed over to a steady rain. "He say anything else?"
Felix's tone was short. "Nothing else I'm going to mention."
Traffic was light, and when we crossed over the invisible line dividing Tyler from North Tyler, my legs started tingling and Felix drew out his pistol and laid it on his lap.
"We've got two options," I said.
"What's that?" Felix asked. ''And don't tell me that one of them is calling the cops. That doesn't exist as an option."
I kept my eyes on the curving road, knowing that Cameron Briggs's home was coming up in a matter of secon
ds. "Two options," I said. "We either go in quiet or go in loud. We can park the Rover and snoop and poke our way in."
"Or we can go in hard-ass," Felix said, nodding. "I'm tired of being quiet, Lewis. Let's go in loud."
The curve straightened out and there was the open gate of Cameron Briggs's home, off to our left. I had another second or two of decision-making, and a damnable voice said, skip it, just drive on and find a phone and call the cops. Felix looked at me with a gaze of fear and triumph and anticipation all mixed in, and I made the turn.
The Rover went up the gravel pathway and Felix called out, "Here we go!" and I saw the Audi parked off to the side, with the trunk lid open. I slowed the Rover down a bit, and then I didn't stop. I bumped right into the radiator grill of the Audi, and with the Rover shuddering some, I pushed the car into a brick wall in front of the house, and there was a metallic bang as the rear bumper of the Audi struck the brick.
After I switched off the engine, both of us bailed out of the Rover. I called out to Felix, "I want to make sure he isn't going anyplace," and Felix yelled back, "Take the rear and I'll get the front, and keep your head down!"
And I did just that. I kept low when I went around the south side of the house, passing the windows and keeping a lookout so I wouldn't get ambushed. Shades and draperies were drawn, and I had gone several steps before realizing that my Beretta was now in my shaking hands. Past the putting green and across the stone patio, I got to the rear French doors, and I rattled the door handles. Locked.
Murmuring, "I've always wanted to do this," I smashed a pane of glass with the butt of the Beretta, and after reaching in to unlock the door I got into the rear dining area. I crouched down, breathing heavily, my throat feeling like the Kevlar vest was strangling me. Off to my left was the huge kitchen, with the stoves and walk-in refrigerator and collections of pots and pans hanging from the rafters. I slipped through, taking cover wherever I could find it, and remembering with great clarity a three week course in firearms training I had taken in Quantico, back in my DoD days.
Black Tide Page 36
