by Chris Knopf
I realized with a start that what we'd experienced a few days before was just a prelude, a sneak preview of the main event. A tease. A feint. A cruel diversion.
I plucked my cell phone out of its holster and called Amanda.
"Keep your eye on your mailbox," I said. "You should be getting a forwarded email that Axel wrote to Anika. As soon as it arrives I'd like you to forward it on to Randall Dodge."
"Okay, sure. Is that all?"
"No. We have a decision to make," I said.
"Not another one."
"There's a big storm on the way. Maybe a lot bigger than the last one."
She didn't answer right away.
"Maybe I'm not up for that," she said, finally.
"You should head for New London now. Tie her up as well as you can and get back to Oak Point. I'll meet you when I can."
Another pregnant pause.
"Most of me wants to do that, but a stupid little part of me wants to stay here to be near to you. One for all and all of that."
"I want to know you're safe," I said.
"You can't always get what you want. I think we agreed on that."
When I was married, I never got what I wanted, which was mostly my fault. I didn't know what I wanted, and even if I had, I lacked the stomach to assert my will. Instead, over the years my heart simply slipped away, a few degrees at a time, until what remained was a corporeal form representing Abby's husband Sam, but not much else.
"Okay, stay put for now if you want," I said. "I'll figure something out."
"Are you going to tell me what that is?"
"When I figure it out."
I turned around and looked overhead at the ruffled tree limbs, then back down at the Swan. I had a lot more to figure out than what to do with Amanda. Something I'd never do with a mind so evenly divided against itself. Since Hammon and company drove into the hotel's parking lot, my instincts for trouble had been on high alert. I'd seen a lot of trouble, so those instincts I could trust. But I had a deeper desire to be done with trouble altogether, to leave it for someone else to grapple with. Somebody younger and not yet burnished over with wrenching experience. That was the argument of my conscious mind, the part that was desperate to be back home, to see the opening of the harbor inside of which was a small private marina, with young dockhands cast by Ralph Lauren and a jolly red-faced harbormaster awaiting his new charge, Burton Lewis's Carpe Mariana.
This should have been enough to motivate the obvious behavior, to set forth with the necessary action. To drive me off that island while there was still time to beat the next storm and elude other tempests not born of natural forces.
But for some idiotic reason, it wasn't.
(
This time, when I saw the Town Car pull into the parking lot, it was followed by a Ford Excursion SUV, out of which stepped two guys in polo shirts and sport jackets carrying duffle bags and briefcases. No golf clubs.
They spoke with 't Hooft and Hammon for a moment, then all four went into the Swan. I saw this from across the street, where I was headed up the short hill toward the interior of the island. I wanted to go back down and meet the new guests, but that would have looked too eager. So I kept walking.
I made it to Gwyneth Jones' place in brisk time and was happy to see her tending her store.
"How's business this time of year?" I asked her as I walked through the door.
"It sucks. Though other times of the year aren't much better."
"Not even the high season?"
"Funny, no. I'm wondering if it's the inventory. Maybe I should get in some new lines."
"Just keep the computers."
"Have at it," she said, pointing in their direction.
I wrote Amanda and asked if she'd received the forwarded email from Anika. She wrote back that she had, and immediately after, forwarded it to Randall Dodge. As promised, Anika had deleted the text, but as far as my technical knowledge allowed, it looked like she'd left what Randall needed to dig around for clues to its origins. I wrote her back with thanks, and asked her to stay tuned for further emails and phone calls. And to keep monitoring channel sixteen.
She wrote that she and Eddie missed me and signed off, "Central Communications."
I called Randall.
"I assumed an explanation was on the way," he said when I told him who was on the line.
"What are the chances of tracing where this email came from?" I asked.
There was a long silence while Randall perused the technical information that lay behind the email.
"Connecticut," he said.
"Not Fishers Island?"
"Could be. The island's a lot closer to New London than Southold. Have to keep digging. I might be able to get to a neighborhood, but maybe not the exact house. Though there's a lot of data here. Might be easier than it looks."
"Do what you can. We're getting another storm, so I'm not sure how long the power and cell service will hold up."
"You're wanting this ASAP," he said.
"I am. I'm in your debt."
"I'm in Jackie's debt, so I think that makes us even."
"If you can't get through any other way, give the info to Joe Sullivan and ask him to relay it here over VHF to the state police barracks. He'll do it after giving you a hard time. Pretend you can't hear him."
After we signed off I looked around for Gwyneth, who'd disappeared. I found the door behind the counter from whence she'd once emerged, and knocked.
"I need to pay you," I called through the door.
It whipped open, startling me.
"I like the pay part," she said. "Not everybody does it."
"Makes it hard to stay in business."
"Who cares about that?" she said. "I only charge so people won't disrespect me."
"I like a little philanthropy myself sometimes," I said.
"My father owned most of the copper deposits in Montana," she said. "What's your excuse?"
The walk back to the Swan took the customary fifteen minutes. I went in through the front door, checked the bar and the restaurant, then went through the French doors in the back and found Hammon and his crew seated around a circular table, feeding off a wheeled cart loaded down with pastries and bowls of sodden, colorful fruit. Anika was leaning against the service bar at the edge of the patio, and Del Rey was out on the docks, on a chaise longue, either resting her eyes or sound asleep.
I approached the table.
"Reinforcements?" I asked Hammon.
His gaze would have been reptilian if not slightly warmed by annoyance. 't Hooft's face was blank. He cupped his right fist in his left hand, rotating it like a ball and socket joint.
Both the new guys were big and muscled. The older, maybe forty, had a mashed in nose, not unlike mine, and high cheekbones that had seen a lot of sun. His curly grey hair was neatly combed, offering a nearly feminine contrast to his hammered-out face. The other guy was probably late twenties, with a cleaner, paler complexion and a coat of black stubble on his scalp. His face was fleshier, almost fatty around the eyes, which were set in his cheeks like black marbles.
Surrounded by all that human mass, Hammon looked almost delicate, like a finely crafted doll.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is Sam Acquillo. Sam, meet Jock and Pierre," he said, pointing first to the younger guy, then the older.
"Allo," said Pierre, offering his hand. Not surprisingly, we got into a brief contest of mash-the-other-guy's knuckles. It was his idea, though he made a quick retreat when I squeezed back. I was unsure about my overall physical abilities, but the last few years swinging a hammer had done wonders for my grip.
Jock just nodded, so I did the same.
"I just thought we could use some assistance," said Hammon.
"Finding the boy?" I asked.
"That's right. Jock and Pierre are old associates of my good friend 't Hooft. Nigeria, Colombia, Iraq. You know."
"I don't, but I'll take your word for it," I said.
"We were wondering wh
en you were heading back to Long Island," said 't Hooft. "It seems like now would be a good time."
"Really?" I said. "I was just starting to get settled in. I like it here. Friendly place. Nice weather. Affordable real estate."
Hammon smiled at me, though I'm not sure which part of the conversation sparked the response. Jock and Pierre were quiet, studying me, their eyes fixed and unblinking. Assessing. Pierre's shoulders were slumped, but his head was thrust forward, alert. His eyes were wide in their sockets. His right hand rested on his thigh. I wondered where the gun was stowed; his pockets looked flat and the sport coat showed no obvious bulges.
"We hear the weather's going to get nasty," said Hammon. "What does that really mean?"
"Who knows. Happens this time of year. Nothing's perfect. Don't let it scare you. The Swan made it through '38 and everything after that. Built like a tank. There might be some thunder and lightning and a little wind. You guys worried about that?" I asked, looking from face to face.
"Oui," said Pierre. "Shaking in our undershorts."
They laughed at this, so I laughed with them
I got the general sense that the conversation they wanted to have would be difficult with me sitting there. So I decided to hang around for a while. I brought us all fresh coffee, commented on the fall in barometric pressure, which I could feel, but doubted any of them could, surveyed the group on loyalty to the New York Yankees, asked if anyone knew how to balance a stock portfolio, and otherwise kept them happily engaged until Jock, the silent one, said, "Listen, pal, love to talk all night, but we have some private things to discuss."
"I didn't know we were pals," I said. "So what're we talking about?"
"I said it was private."
"About finding Axel Fey? Your plan of attack? I thought we were working on this together. One for all and all that."
"If I thought you could help I wouldn't have invited Jock and Pierre," said Hammon, agreeably.
"Pretty impressive people."
Nobody wanted to comment on that, so it lay where it fell.
"Okay," I said, getting up to leave. "Suit yourself."
"Oh, Sam," said Hammon before I had a chance to move away. "I seriously recommend that you let us handle everything going forward. It would be better for everybody."
"I bet it would," I said, heading back over to the bar.
Anika was wearing a sleeveless white shirt over a short denim skirt. I noticed for the first time a tattoo on her left shoulder. It was the number twenty-five in a deep burgundy.
"I didn't know tats came in that color," I said.
"Got it for my twenty-fifth birthday. Special order. Though now it's more like eighty-six. They warn you about how the stupid things evolve."
"I think the stupid part is getting one in the first place," I said.
"That's the kind of thing a father would say."
"Not surprising. I am one."
"No daughters, I hope."
"One daughter. My only kid. About your age, and even more aggravating. So who're the new boys in town?" I asked, jerking my head in that direction.
She took a pull from a bottle of water on the bar, then wiped her hands on her denim skirt. Then she left the bar area, waving me to follow, which I did through the lobby, around the reception desk and into a small office. It had the sour, faded feel of a room still to be updated and restored. The only evidence of the Feys was a small white board screwed into one wall covered with a checklist, most of the items unchecked, and a computer on a side table against the other wall. The screensaver was a crude animation of Albert Einstein and Socrates playing chess.
She shut the door behind us.
"Did I tell you that Derrick Hammon is a crypto-fascist, sociopathic fucking sick creep survivalist nut bag? Adventure man-climbing mountains, deep diving wrecks, high altitude parachuting. His ideal vacation is stripping down to his boxers, painting his body and living in the woods for a week, killing little bunnies and shit with his bare hands and eating them raw. Don't believe me? It's worse than that. His best friends are ex-Special Forces, the kind who go freelance after discharge. Nowadays we call them private contractors, like they're the same people who lay tile in your bathroom. He pays them to train him in counterinsurgency tactics, which really comes in handy in suburban Boston. What do you think 't Hooft is, a database manager? Jesus Christ, for a so-called sophisticated person, you don't know shit."
She said all this in a forced whisper, only a few inches from my ear. As she spoke, I could feel an atomized mist of saliva spray against my cheek. Her breath smelled of toothpaste and wine. When I turned to look at her, her face was slightly flushed, her eyes narrow, but glistening with stress and intelligence. Her broad mouth made more so by her lips, redder and more swollen than I'd remembered them.
"No, you didn't tell me. Would've been good to know. So he's brought his A-team here to track down Axel. And you don't want them to," I said.
"Duh."
"So why do you let them stay here? Where's your father in all this?"
She drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it out noisily. With all the intimate whispering, she'd moved close enough for me to feel the outside curves of her clothed body. I held my ground.
"There's a pretty serious cop on the island now," I said. "I doubt he'll want paramilitary cps taking over his jurisdiction."
"People can get themselves into really, really difficult situations, even when they think all they're doing is living their lives," said Anika, in the same full-throated whisper. "Especially when you're a wing nut family with far more curiosity than common sense. It just happens, one stupid step at a time, and before you know it, it's like an ultra cosmic nightmare to the nth power. Do you have any idea how powerful technology is becoming, and how few people actually know how to turn the knobs and pull the levers? We've got a society of teenagers out cruising in daddy's Maserati."
"Okay, so what does that have to do with our situation?"
She shook her head violently enough to toss her hair into her face.
"No cops."
All my cop friends were devoted to Occam's Razor-that the explanation for any phenomenon was nearly always the most obvious. And its variant: if you think something's true, it probably is.
"What did he do?" I asked.
"Who?"
"Your father. What do they have on him? What drove him out of the company? What's causing him to sit by passively while Hammon and his goons invade your family's home? He doesn't strike me as the kind of character who'd just roll over for nothing. What did he do?" I repeated.
She pulled the chair out from under the computer station and sat down. She put her hands together and gripped them between her bare knees, as if to clench her secrets more tightly to her body.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask that," she said.
"You better answer if you want my help. You don't know how close I am to ditching you and this whole sorry mess. If you're as good a researcher as you say you are, you'll know I've been through some cosmic nightmares of my own in recent years. I don't need to play around in someone else's. It's one thing to go out on a limb for people you didn't know a week ago, it's another to be lied to, jerked around and kept in the dark. You're not the first person to think manipulation was a good strategy with me. It isn't."
With her hands still held between her knees, she bowed her head, with only her nose showing between falling waves of hair.
"It's not why I wanted to sleep with you," she said, softly.
"And it's not why I didn't. What do they have on your father?"
She shook her head.
"They have something on him," she said. "I can't tell you what it is. It's not my place. If that's a deal-breaker, then just go."
The door to the office opened and a man walked in. He peered at me, then at his daughter, who looked up at him and smiled a weak smile.
"Hi, Dad."
(
Sorry," said Fey. "I didn't know you were in here. Is something wrong?"
"Besides the obvious?" said Anika.
He squeezed his lips together and stood silently, a vivid testament to my charge and Anika's partial admission. I wanted to put it to Fey right there, but that would have meant exposing Anika, the consequences of which I had no way of knowing. I didn't have to care, but something stopped me. Maybe she was a better manipulator than I gave her credit for.
"We were just talking about finding Axel," I said. "You haven't heard anything, I take it."
He shook his head.
"Nothing. Are you leaving us?" he asked, nodding at my backpack, which I'd slipped off my back and dropped on the floor.
"Yeah," I said. "I gotta get back. Looks like you got plenty of support here."
"Indeed," he said. "The forces are assembled."
I picked up the backpack and put it on my back.
"Thanks again for letting us lay over. With all you got going on, it was a good deed."
"You may thank my daughter," he said. "Good deeds are more her specialty."
I did thank her and left, glancing into the bar as I went through the lobby. The gang was still in there, huddled around a round table. I walked out into the bright autumn day, went out to the street and looked both ways.
One of the things I learned from twenty years of troubleshooting large, complex hydrocarbon processing systems was that in the absence of any logical, coherent, reasonably promising angle of attack, action was better than contemplation.
I turned right, toward the ferry dock. I passed the yacht club and stopped in at the gas station. Track was at his post behind the grimy desk. He wasn't happy to see me, but I made him happier when I told him I was leaving.
"It's sort of painful to leave after everyone's been so kind and welcoming," I said.
"Then you'll have to hurry on back," he said. "We'll be waiting with the same greeting."
"I had a nice chat with Desi," I said. "Turns out we have a lot of friends in common. Maybe I'll stay with him."
He didn't look like he believed me, though a breath of doubt drifted across his face. I left him with that and headed up the road. In about twenty minutes I was at the general store. I stopped in and asked for directions to the ferry dock. The clerk and the lone shopper were all too happy to oblige, briefly contesting the best route, with the shopper sketching her preference on a napkin. I thanked them both and left.
