by Stephen Frey
Kohler lay on his stomach, moaning pitifully, a quickly growing pool of blood staining the ground around him. “Champagne Island,” he gasped as Christian yanked Allison to her feet. “Off Maine, near Acadia. Everything’s there. The tapes,” he moaned, “get the tapes on Champagne.” Then his eyes rolled back.
There was nothing they could do for Kohler. “Come on,” Christian urged, teeth gritted as his eyes raced around the shadows looking for the shooter. “We gotta get out of here.”
ROTH HUNG the phone up in the lodge’s kitchen and glanced at Harrison. “That was Stetson. He says I need to get ready for a visitor.”
CHRISTIAN DIALED Quentin’s cell phone number. He had just dropped Allison off at a hotel downtown. Now he was headed to Maine. She’d begged to go with him, but that was out of the question. He had to do this alone. He couldn’t put her in danger again.
“Hello.”
“Quentin, it’s me. Get to Southport, Maine—fast! It’s on the coast near Acadia.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it. There’s a place right on the waterfront called the Southport Harbor Diner.” He’d called an operator in town and asked for a landmark. She’d given him the diner. “Meet me there no later than six o’clock this evening.” It was still before midnight here in Chicago, but not where Quentin was. “Got it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I don’t want to stay on this line. It’s a cell phone.”
“All right, all right. See you then.”
“Quentin!”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
QUENTIN BOUNDED down the steps of his apartment building on the Upper West Side, headed for his parking garage. He was going to drive from New York to Maine. There was plenty of time and this way he didn’t have to risk a plane being delayed. He wasn’t putting control in anyone else’s hands.
He jogged down 85th Street through the darkness, bag slung over his shoulder. Christian needed him. He’d recognized that tone of voice on the call. He’d heard it before.
Two men darted out from behind a parked SUV as Quentin jogged past—he never saw them until they were right on him. One hit him low and one high, and as he went down the world went black.
24
IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK and Quentin was still a no-show at the Southport Harbor Diner. Quentin was never two hours late for anything. Something had happened to him. Somebody was listening to their calls. Christian had turned off his cell phone before getting on the plane in Chicago so no one could track him down, and he didn’t dare turn it on now, not even for a second. The network’s closest antenna would give him away. But somebody must have picked up his communication with Quentin, the last call he’d made before turning off the phone.
Christian paid his tab—he’d ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke and eaten it at the counter—then headed out of the diner and walked around the harbor, wondering how he was going to get to Champagne Island. He’d thought about chartering a chopper in Portland after landing from Chicago, but if there was anyone on the island who didn’t want him there, they’d sure as hell know he’d arrived. And there was no guarantee any of the chopper pilots in Portland would have ever heard of Champagne anyway—unless that was how Kohler and the rest of them got out there. Kohler’s nine pages of notes inside the envelope hadn’t indicated. There were lots of little islands off the Maine coast, and Christian didn’t want to end up marooned on the wrong one if the pilot got confused.
As he moved down a long wooden pier lined with pleasure crafts, he saw a kid hosing down a boat, a sleek-looking twenty-foot outboard.
“Excuse me.”
The kid looked up. He had dirty-blond hair, crooked front teeth, and a sleepy-eyed expression. He didn’t look a day over sixteen. “Yeah?”
“You ever heard of Champagne Island?”
The kid stopped spraying the deck and looked up. “Yeah.”
“I gotta get out there. Is this your boat?”
“My father’s.”
“Will you take me?” Christian could see it was the last thing the kid wanted to do. “I’ll pay you.” The kid still didn’t seem interested. “Five hundred bucks.” Now the kid seemed suspicious. “Look, I—”
“He’s really got to get out there.”
Christian whipped around. Allison stood behind him.
“What’s your name?” she asked the boy, moving beside Christian.
The boy straightened up, instantly entranced. “Danny.”
“Well, Danny, you’d be doing us a huge favor if you took us out there. It’s very important that—”
“No way, Ally. I can’t let you do that.”
She looked over her shoulder. “You don’t have a choice, Chris.”
“It’s too dangerous,” he muttered, low so Danny couldn’t hear.
“So, will you take us?” she asked the kid.
“Yeah, okay. For five hundred bucks. But I need to fill up first. You gotta pay for that, too,” he called to Christian. “On top of the five hundred.”
Christian pursed his lips. “Fine.”
“Let me have the money.”
Christian pulled out his wallet and opened it so the kid could see the cash, a row of hundred-dollar bills. “I’ll give it to you when we’re on our way.” The kid wasn’t happy about that, but screw him, he’d accept the terms. “How long will it take us to get out there?”
“About an hour.”
“Well, let’s get going.”
They filled up at a pump a few piers away, then headed out. When they reached the edge of the harbor, they hit waves and spray started flying over the gunnels.
“Is it always like this?” Christian yelled as he and Allison crouched down behind the windshield, holding tightly to the bulkhead as the small boat bounced up and down in the swells.
“No, we got weather coming in tonight. A front with some big thunderstorms.” The kid grabbed Christian’s arm. “Hey, give me my money.”
Christian took three hundred dollars out and pressed it in the kid’s palm. “I’ll give you the rest on the way back.”
“Bullshit, man! The storms are gonna be here in a few hours. I ain’t staying out there for that.”
“I’ll give you a thousand bucks.” The kid’s eyes flashed open, big as fifty-cent pieces. “Five hundred now, five hundred when we get back to Southport.”
The kid nodded, grabbing the two additional hundred-dollar bills Christian pulled out of his wallet. “Okay, but how long you gonna be?” he asked, flipping on the boat’s red and green running lights. It was almost dark.
“Not long.” Christian reached over and turned the lights back off. He noticed a flash on the horizon. “What’s that?”
“The lighthouse on Champagne.”
Mace Kohler hadn’t mentioned a lighthouse on the island, but he’d mentioned a lot of other things—amazing, terrifying things. He’d described the Order in detail, its history, its reason to be, what Samuel Hewitt was trying to do—keep Jesse Wood out of the White House and the minority population down. The hatred and the lengths to which the Order’s “inside crew,” as Kohler described them—Hewitt, Trenton Fleming, Gordon Meade, and Franklin Laird—would go to accomplish their objectives. Most important, Kohler had described what Christian needed to do once he got to Champagne Island.
Christian glanced back over his shoulder to the west. Huge storm clouds were building over the mainland and lightning was ripping the sky. “Have you ever been to Champagne Island?” he yelled.
The kid shook his head. “Why no lights?”
“I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming,” Christian said. The flash from the lighthouse was growing brighter. “So whatever you can do to help me be invisible, I’d appreciate.”
“What are you doing out there?”
“Don’t ask, just steer.”
The kid eased off the throttle when the island loomed in front of them, cutting the engine’s noise. “I can’t get y
ou all the way into shore, the surf’s too rough. I’d bottom out. You’re gonna have to swim for it.”
“Don’t you leave me here,” Christian warned again.
“I won’t.”
Christian checked the western horizon once more. The sky was completely dark now, except for the lightning cutting jagged streaks behind them.
“This is as far as I can go,” the kid said, checking the depth finder. They were still a hundred feet from shore. “The waves aren’t too bad. You should be able to touch bottom pretty quick.”
Christian checked the shoreline. No beach, just an immediate steep climb of about ten feet to the tree line. In the dark it was impossible to see if anyone was waiting in there for him. He glanced at Allison. “I’ll be back as fast as I can. Make sure the kid stays here.”
“The kid’ll stay here. I’m going with you.”
He’d been afraid of this. “No.” But it was clear from her expression that she wasn’t going to listen. “I can’t be responsible.”
She shook her head. “Get your butt overboard.”
He moved carefully to the side of the boat, threw his legs over, and dropped down slowly into the water up to his chest. “Jesus!” he muttered as he treaded water. It was freezing, and it seemed to suck the breath from his lungs. He turned back just as Allison dove over him into the water. He started swimming quickly when her head and shoulders popped to the surface, following her into shore, keeping his head out of the water, trying to time his approach so he didn’t get caught in the roll of a wave. But they both got caught in the same swell and tumbled along the bottom until they finally grabbed hold of the slippery rocks and managed to drag themselves into shallow water.
A few moments later they were climbing up the bank side by side, gasping for air, freezing. When they’d made it into the trees, Christian glanced back, barely able to see the outline of the boat rocking with the waves. Hopefully, the kid would wait, but right now he had to focus on moving ahead. According to Kohler’s notes, there was a huge lodge in the middle of the island and that was where they were going. That was where the tapes were, the tapes he could use to destroy the Order. Kohler had asked at the end of his notes that Christian not let his tapes get out, and Christian was going to do all he could to honor that request.
They stole through the woods, teeth chattering. Kohler had said it wouldn’t be hard to find the lodge, but it was pitch-black on the forest floor and he was becoming disoriented.
Christian stopped and listened, keeping his hand on Allison’s cold arm to make certain they didn’t get separated. He tried to hear if they were being followed, but there was nothing. Nothing but the wind moving through the trees.
“Come on,” he whispered.
A few moments later they made it to the edge of a clearing. He peered around a tree and saw a flat cement slab—the helipad Kohler had drawn in his notes. They weren’t far from the lodge now.
They started moving again, but there was a sudden blaze of lightning and a crash of thunder from nowhere. He threw Allison to the ground and covered her head with his arms, assuming one of the trees right above them had been hit. But when he looked up he couldn’t see any damage. The wind had picked up suddenly, causing the treetops to sway violently, but they were still intact.
When they reached the lodge, he hesitated at the perimeter of the lawn. Kohler’s notes had mentioned a caretaker and his wife—Don and Patty Roth—but the huge house was completely dark. He took a deep breath, then motioned to Allison. When she nodded back, they sprinted across the grass to the kitchen door. According to Kohler there was no alarm, so he pushed the door open and they slipped inside.
Upstairs was where he had to go, but he stayed in the kitchen for a few moments, listening again. Still nothing. They moved out of the kitchen and stole up the staircase to the second floor, then up to the third floor and down the hall to the last door on the left—to the door to which Kohler had directed him. There was supposed to be a sledgehammer hidden behind some boxes in the room—what Christian would need to break the locks on the steel door inside. Kohler had hidden the sledgehammer there during his last trip to Champagne. In his notes, Kohler had warned Christian that it might not be there. Hewitt had caught him coming out of the room after he’d hidden it and might have searched the room and found the tool. If it wasn’t there, he was to go back outside to a shed near the lodge. There he’d find another sledgehammer.
Christian reached the door at the end of the hall and tried to turn the knob—but it was locked. He stood in the darkened hallway for a moment, thinking. If the caretakers were here, he’d wake them up instantly by breaking the door down, but Kohler had given him information to use. Roth had run into trouble as a Miami cop. Christian was to tell Roth he knew about the trouble, that he knew some very specific details of the trouble that the Miami force didn’t know, and that he’d told a friend. That if Roth didn’t let him keep going, one way or another the cops in Miami would find out something they’d wanted to find out for a long time. Either from Christian or Christian’s friend if Christian didn’t make it back. They’d also find out where Roth had been hiding out the last three years. He backed up a step and got ready to kick open the door. The hell with it—he was going to wake up anybody in the house when he started smashing the locks on the inside door.
The door popped open on his second try. He quickly flipped on the light and starting searching for the sledgehammer. He was committed now, no going back. He found the hammer right away and moved to the steel door. Two swings and the top lock flew off. He took aim at the bottom one and swung hard. It popped off instantly and he pulled the door back, then listened again. No sounds. He turned the room light off, then moved back to the steel door and flipped the switch inside—the one Kohler had told him would be there—the heavy smell of mildew reaching his nostrils as the area was bathed in light. In front of him was a steep, narrow stairway.
He turned around. “Stay here, Ally.”
“Christian, I—”
“It’ll be faster. I’ll be right back.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
Three windowless flights down Christian came to another door—this time made of a darkly stained wood—also with a large padlock on it. As best he could tell, he was underground now—three flights down versus the two he’d climbed. Standing on the last step he wound up and slammed the hammer down on the lock. This time it took four tries, but this one finally popped off, too. He pulled the door back and reached into the room, feeling along the wall for the switch. When his fingertips reached it, he flipped it up and the room was illuminated by a faint blue light.
The room reminded him of a tiny chapel. There was a large, wooden chair at the front of the room—thronelike in that it was raised several feet above the maroon-colored carpet and there were steps leading up to it. It was built into the wall and was ornate with beautiful carvings and moldings on the sides of the wide arms. In front of the chair was an altar covered by an azure cloth. On the altar were two candles, a skull, a saber, a Bible, and a rolled-up parchment tied with a red ribbon. In front of the altar were two pews each with four individual seats, made of dark wood like the door.
Incredible. This was the Order room, as Kohler had described. Where they met for formal ceremonies, initiated new members, and kept their most secret archives—including the tapes.
Christian hurried to a closet on the far wall and yanked open the door. On the shelves were rows and rows of videotapes, audio cassettes, and DVDs all clearly marked with names. “Jesus.” The infidelity requirement. He reached for one of the DVDs. It was marked “Gordon Meade.”
“Hello, Mr. Gillette.”
Christian whipped around. Standing in the doorway was Samuel Hewitt. Beside him was another man Christian didn’t recognize. He was holding Allison, one hand over her mouth.
“I see Mr. Kohler gave you excellent directions,” Hewitt said calmly. “Last thing he ever did, poor man. Mr. Kohler didn’t approve of me,” h
e continued, walking past the altar to the chair at the front of the room, ascending the steps, and sitting down. “Mr. Kohler didn’t approve of what I’m trying to do.” He nodded toward the doorway. “What we’re trying to do. What we stand for.”
Christian’s gaze flashed to the doorway, following Hewitt’s nod. His heart was pounding as Trenton Fleming and Gordon Meade appeared at the bottom of the steps. They moved into the Order room, past the man holding Allison, and sat down in the pews, one on either side of the short aisle leading to the altar and the chair.
Hewitt motioned to the man holding Allison. “Take her upstairs, then back to the main floor. Wait for us there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You wanted me to look in your study at the ranch,” Christian uttered, realizing suddenly that he’d been played the whole time.
“Figured you might. I left that file for you to find. I wanted you to know what I had. That I could take you down whenever I wanted to with the CST fraud or with the bribe you paid to get the casino license.”
“Why did Bob Galloway blame me in his suicide note? What did you do for him?”
Hewitt pointed at Fleming. “We kept CST going by putting money into it from Black Brothers. Not directly, of course. Through a series of dummy corporations to keep the origin of the money secret. That gave Mr. Galloway time to pump up the numbers and get that nice valuation in the initial public offering. The one you took twenty million bucks out of, Mr. Gillette.”
“Why would Galloway do all that, then commit suicide?”
“Mr. Galloway had Alzheimer’s. He wanted his wife and children to be set for life before he couldn’t take care of them anymore. His deal with me was that he had to commit suicide once he had everything permanently in his wife’s name. Then blame you in his suicide note for the fraud that would be discovered. That way he wouldn’t be around to recant. In return, his wife’s now worth thirty million dollars and there’s no way the government can take it from her. I understand she’s going to open an adoption agency with part of that money, a lifelong dream of hers. I’m sure you can relate to that. Maybe she and the Clayton House can work together someday.” Hewitt smiled, pleased with himself. “I convinced Mr. Galloway that he didn’t want to put his family through Alzheimer’s, especially without enough money to take care of him. He saw the light very quickly.”
