by Ward Larsen
He did his best to mirror her smile, and then she was gone to another table. He briefly stared at his plate, his appetite gone. DeBolt forced himself to eat, and all throughout the meal his eyes wandered the room, seeing countless ways to test his newfound abilities. The potential was all at once frightening, exhilarating, and intoxicating. The cook was named Rusty Gellar, a guy with two cars, one child-support payment, and three minor drug convictions, all over ten years ago. The owner of the place was not named Roy, but Dave. He owed back taxes to the state of Maine for the last two years, and headed up the local VFW. A dozen tables were occupied behind DeBolt, twenty people with backgrounds and stories. All there for the taking.
He sat frozen in his seat, unsure what to do. He stared out the plate-glass window on his right shoulder, and saw a crisp and glorious day. He also saw a world fraught with unthinkable complications. Unthinkable opportunities. It was as though he’d been given the keys to some perilous kingdom. DeBolt was already facing a mountain of problems, life as he knew it having ended weeks ago. And now this.
What the hell do I do with it?
To that question, the high-definition screen in his head remained maddeningly blank.
* * *
Lund rose early, and by seven thirty was at the apartment building where William Simmons had lived. She’d arranged to meet the bartender’s wife in front of the unit marked OFFICE, and she was there waiting, a pale-skinned woman with lively green eyes and an eager manner.
“Hi, I’m Natalie. You must be Shannon—Tom told me you needed some help.”
The woman was animated and cheerful, more than Lund could match at that hour. “Yes, thanks for your cooperation.” She pulled out her credentials and showed them to the woman, wanting to keep things official. “How long had William lived here?”
“Since he arrived, about a year ago. I rented the unit to him.” She lost a bit of her buoyancy as she said, “What a terrible tragedy. He was such a nice young man.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone tells me.”
Natalie led to an apartment on the first floor of a three-story affair. She pulled a key and opened the door, then said, “I know the drill—you’d rather I wasn’t here looking over your shoulder. I’ll be in the office. Just let me know when you’re done, and I’ll close up.”
Lund said that she would, and went inside. It was a charmless place consisting of one bedroom, one bath, and a small kitchen, all done up in bachelor modern: a big couch facing a flat screen TV that looked wired for gaming, novelty beer bottles lining a window ledge, and a wall-sized banner with the Denver Broncos logo. No surprises so far.
Lund began in the bedroom. The carpet could have used cleaning, and the bed wasn’t made—reminding her of her own place. She saw some climbing hardware and a poster of a guy free-climbing a sheer wall of granite. All aspirational, but nothing to suggest that Simmons was any kind of seasoned mountaineer. Lund went through the closet and dresser, then spun one last circle. She saw nothing of interest. After another ten minutes in the main room and kitchen, she relented. She had found exactly what she’d expected—the crash pad of an adventurous young man who’d slipped and fallen off a mountain.
As promised, the effervescent Natalie was waiting in the office.
“I think I’m done,” said Lund. “Thanks for letting me in.”
“No problem.”
“I do have one question … earlier, when you said you ‘knew the drill.’ What did you mean by that?”
“Well, it was just last month. Your cohorts came by to see Trey DeBolt’s place. It’s so sad … two boys gone before their time in just a few weeks. Trey in particular I liked—he always seemed so purposeful. That boy was going places, I tell you.”
Lund felt a stab as she recalled her own last vision of DeBolt. “My cohorts?” she repeated.
“Yes, two men.”
“And they said they were with the Coast Guard Investigative Service, here in Kodiak?”
“Yes. At least, I think that’s what they said. They had badges of some kind.”
Lund pondered this. The staff of CGIS Kodiak could not have been more straightforward. It consisted of her and one active-duty chief petty officer. CPO James Kalata rarely worked outside the confines of their office—or for that matter, inside. “Do you remember their names?”
“Well … no, I’m afraid not.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, not at all. I was just wondering who they sent out.”
After some concentration, Natalie gave a description of two average-looking young men with short haircuts. That narrowed things down to roughly half the Coast Guard.
“Were they in uniform?”
“No,” she said. “Civilian clothes, like you.”
“Okay. Before I go, would you mind if I looked at that place too?”
“Trey’s apartment? I don’t see why not. Today is actually your last chance.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s a crew with a truck coming later to take his things—it’s all been approved, and he only paid through the end of last month.”
“I see. Where is it all going?”
“Salvation Army—everything will be put to good use, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure.”
They went through the same drill, and soon Lund was alone at the threshold of Trey DeBolt’s apartment. After Natalie was gone, she drew a deep breath. For weeks she’d been trying to ignore the memory—unfortunately, it was the kind of vision that didn’t fade. The interview at the Golden Anchor hadn’t been the only time she’d crossed paths with DeBolt. There had been one other encounter, in a setting so strained and intimate, it would be forever cemented in her mind.
Lund forced her attention to the room.
On first glance it looked very much like the room she’d just seen. There was a surfboard leaning against the wall in a corner, another next to it that was broken in half. Got to be a story there, she thought. A set of scuba gear lay near the closet. On the wall was a framed picture of DeBolt riding a monstrous wave, taken from the tail of his board, a whitewater lip curling ominously over his head. Another of a skydiving DeBolt in free fall, his smiling face warped by the wind and a set of goggles. It took Lund a moment to realize she was focusing on the man and not the room. When she made that shift, her outlook began to alter.
DeBolt’s room was different from Simmons’ in one very troubling way. It had nothing to do with his standards of tidiness or anything he owned. Dresser drawers had been pulled, the contents of the closet upturned. Lund might have written it off as the lousy housekeeping of a twenty-something male, yet she saw neatness elsewhere: shoes paired precisely in line, dishes stacked, books on a shelf perfectly squared. Her concerns were made complete when she found a Walmart-grade security box that had been pried open, and a file cabinet drawer left ajar. Either might suggest a burglary, but she saw three twenty-dollar bills in plain sight on the dresser, and a nice iPad on the kitchen table. Taken together, Lund saw but one possible interpretation. Somebody had beaten her here.
She was looking at the aftermath of a search. One performed by two men confident enough not to care if they left tracks, yet undertaken in a targeted manner. That implied a government agency, but one other than CGIS, because that would have necessitated her involvement. Lund performed a search of her own, and after twenty minutes determined that three things she would like to have found were missing. There was no passport, which virtually any Alaska-based serviceman would have. There was no last will and testament—a requirement for those assigned hazardous duty. Of course, either of those items could have been gathered by someone else with good intentions—DeBolt’s commander or a fellow Coastie—at a time when Natalie hadn’t been present. But the last one bothered her. At the file cabinet, which was nicely arranged in alphabetical order, she saw a distinct gap among the Ms: right between MASTERCRAFT BOATS and MOM’S PAPERS. In a modest leap of speculation, Lund guessed someone had remo
ved Trey DeBolt’s medical records.
She closed the place up and headed back to the office where she dropped off the key and thanked Natalie. Minutes later Lund was in the parking lot. She walked past a fresh-faced young enlisted man in uniform who was probably on his way back to his apartment after a night shift. She found herself hoping the building’s bad karma didn’t run in threes. A Salvation Army truck was just pulling up. Lund considered telling them they’d have to come back another day, but decided against it.
None of the items missing from DeBolt’s place were of singular importance, and their unexplained absence did not constitute a crime, or for that matter, a problem. On the other hand, a pair of men had presented themselves as CGIS officials, and searched the residence of a crewman who’d recently died in the course of duty.
And that? Lund reflected. That was definitely a problem.
12
DeBolt managed to clean his plate, and declined Sam’s offer of a second serving of pancakes. The coffee, however, kept coming, and when he finally waved her off Sam put a check on the table. He paired it with his twenty-dollar bill, and it was swept up and change quickly delivered. He left Sam five dollars, which he thought a generous tip given that it was, in that moment, precisely half his personal fortune.
He was ready to leave, but hesitated realizing he had no destination, nor any means of transportation. His eyes drifted outside to the road and the windswept bay. He watched a white Chevy Tahoe ease into the parking lot. The truck pulled into a spot fifty feet from where he sat. DeBolt, still on edge after last night, watched cautiously. The Tahoe was parked facing the restaurant, and he could make out two men in front. The backseats remained in shadow. Neither man moved—they simply stared at Roy’s Diner from behind dark sunglasses. No, not the restaurant.
They were staring at him.
DeBolt hurriedly looked around the diner. He saw a red EXIT sign over the doorless passageway to the kitchen. The Tahoe remained still. The two men inside didn’t move or seem to be talking. They weren’t coming inside for breakfast. It all seemed wrong, out of character for Jonesport. He noticed the front license plate on the Tahoe—a Maine plate, but different from others he’d seen, more generic. In a burst of inspiration, he whispered to himself, “Maine license plate 864B34.”
It took longer this time, the seconds seeming like hours as he tried not to stare at the men in the truck. Finally, a response:
864B34, MAINE
CHEVY TAHOE, WHITE, VIN 1GCGDMA8A9KR07327
REGISTERED U.S. DOD
VEHICLE POSITION 44° 31'59.5"N 67° 63' 02.5"W
JONESPORT, MAINE
DeBolt sat stunned. His senses went on high alert. Department of Defense? It made no sense at all. And the lat-long position—he knew vehicles could be tracked, but to have near-instantaneous access to that kind of information? Where was it coming from? He saw but one certainty—the information he was getting was so accurate, so detailed, that it could only be true. More ominous, but equally certain—the men in the Tahoe were part of the squad from the beach last night.
The EXIT sign beckoned, pulling him as if by some sidelong gravitational force. But why weren’t they moving? he wondered. Of course he knew the answer. Last night there had been five of them. So where were the others? Might there be another truck out back, someone covering the perimeter? He had no idea. They were the professionals, he was the amateur. DeBolt knew he was trapped. Then it dawned on him why they hadn’t made a move—they needed to do this quietly. He was cornered, but they couldn’t simply walk up and shoot him in a public place.
That gave him time. Not much, but time all the same.
With all the self-control he could gather, DeBolt sat where he was and tried to think it through. He looked all around the restaurant, but short of throwing a chair through a window there were only two ways out: the front door and the back. Might there be a weapon inside the restaurant? A handgun under the cash drawer or a patron with a concealed weapon? Yes, he decided, it was possible, but that kind of firepower wouldn’t give him any chance against five heavily armed commandos. DOD. The acronym looped through his head until he forced it away. He looked out across the parking lot and saw a half-dozen cars. Could he steal someone’s keys and make a run for it? Not without raising a commotion inside that would give away the idea. Forewarned, the Tahoe could easily reposition to block in any car on the lot. The street beyond had light traffic, so a carjacking seemed impractical. Is that what I’ve been reduced to, he thought, a common thug? Joan Chandler had already paid the ultimate price at the hands of these men. He vowed to not endanger anyone else.
DeBolt methodically studied each vehicle in the parking lot, and his gaze settled on a late-model Cadillac. It was a sporty model, a CTS. He wondered who owned it, thought What the hell, and mentally ran the plate number. The response was almost instantaneous:
HFJ098, MAINE
CADILLAC CTS, VIN 1G6KS17S5Y8104122
REGISTERED PAUL SCHROEDER
VEHICLE POSITION 44° 31' 59.4"N 67° 63' 02.4"W
JONESPORT, MAINE
ONSTAR
DeBolt looked over his shoulder. He saw at least five men who could be Paul Schroeder. Or had Mrs. Paul Schroeder borrowed her husband’s car? No way to tell without asking.
Then his thoughts snagged on the last line of the response—something different from his search on the Tahoe. OnStar. He knew what it was—an emergency communications system built into General Motors cars as an option. He recalled a salesman’s pitch for a Chevy he hadn’t bought some years ago: automatic crash notification, theft protection, and a wide variety of other functions. But why had it been included in the response? Why indeed …
DeBolt concentrated mightily: OnStar, HFJ098.
Nothing came.
One of the men got out of the Tahoe, passenger side, and stared directly at him. DeBolt gripped the table, forcing himself to stay put. Everything around him seemed to constrict; he felt like a fish watching a net close around him. He saw the man’s lips moving ever so slightly, no doubt coordinating with others who remained unseen. His right hand hovered just above his belt line, near the open zipper of an all-weather jacket.
Then, finally, a response flashed into view:
ONSTAR CAPTURE HFJ098
KEY BYPASS ENABLED THIS VEHICLE
DeBolt sat stunned, his attention alternating between near and far vision. Capture? he almost said aloud. What the hell did that mean? His next command seemed more like a prayer. He waited, transfixed, and seconds later the parking lights blinked twice on the unoccupied Cadillac and he heard two muted chirps.
The doors had unlocked.
Another sent message brought the smallest of tremors from the car. A puff of blue smoke from the exhaust.
The engine had started.
Sweet Jesus …
Without another thought, DeBolt leapt out of his seat and ran for the back door.
13
“He’s moving! Back door!”
The warning arrived in the commander’s earpiece as he was backed hard against a spalled concrete wall near the diner’s rear entrance. He readied himself and nodded to the man on the other side of the doorway who was ready with a Taser.
“Remember, quick and quiet, immediate egress!” he whispered into his mic.
He listened intently, waiting for the hard footfalls. He heard only the roar of the Tahoe’s engine out front. Three seconds passed since the last transmission.
Five.
Ten.
Too long. The Tahoe skidded into view, swimming in a beige cloud of dust.
“Five, report!”
Five was now the only man still in front. He was sitting on a park bench across the street, ignoring the stray dog he’d been petting until moments ago—a nice touch of improvisation they’d all agreed. His primary task was to watch for threats—in particular, law enforcement—while the grab went down.
Five responded, “I don’t see him in the … wait…” An excruciating pause. “Targ
et is out the front door! I repeat, front door! He’s getting in a car, late-model Caddy, blue!”
Nothing more had to be said as the team shifted their tactical focus. The commander ran for the Tahoe, his partner right behind. Both bundled into the backseat, and the leader ordered Five to retrieve their second vehicle, a Toyota SUV parked nearby. Their chase had gone mobile.
“There!” said the driver.
They all saw the dark blue sedan fishtailing through gravel, heard rubber squeal when its tires met asphalt. The Tahoe’s driver did well, taking a good angle across the parking lot, but they couldn’t cut him off. The Tahoe bounded onto Main Street and found its footing, but the Caddy was fast. They all watched the car round a bend and briefly disappear from sight. When they reacquired a visual, the Caddy was in the left lane passing a delivery truck.
The Tahoe’s driver tried to mirror the move, but an oncoming car caused him to brake hard. Well-trained in both offensive and defensive maneuvering, he steered onto the gravel shoulder, which was suitably wide, accelerated, and soon had the Tahoe back on the road with the truck behind them, its horn blaring. The Caddy was still in front, moving fast, its brake lights flickering on the next curve. All eyes went to the dash-mounted GPS map—the road led north, away from town, and connected to a number of secondary roads.
“Dammit!” the commander shouted.
The problem was obvious, a simple equation of weight and horsepower. The Caddy was half a mile in front and accelerating like a rocket. Unless their target kept to the speed limit—which he’d blatantly disregarded so far—they could never keep up.
“Did anybody get the plate number?”
Silence was the answer. The man who still had a Taser in his hand said weakly, “It was parked in front of us, and we have the dash cam—the head office can figure it out in time.”
When they next saw the blue car it was barely a dot, almost a mile out front. The town was falling away, the terrain going to countryside and freshly plowed fields. Another distant blink of red as the Caddy approached a curve at breakneck speed.
