Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Clint left her house at eleven the night before with a promise to return for breakfast prior to their fishing trip. Another evening absorbed in unguarded conversation. Their two months together passed with an easy contentment.

  She should have dialyzed last night, but she’d fallen asleep too soon, cocooned in fading dreams, down, and enchantment. The evening proved too satisfying to interrupt for blood filtering. He’d offered to help. Again.

  Maybe he could really handle it. Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t ready to test him.

  A knock came from her door as she dressed.

  Six-fifteen. He was early.

  Once over in the mirror–baggy pink jeans and a pink thermal shirt sufficed for cooking breakfast.

  Omelets. Everybody liked omelets.

  She hustled to the door. The deadbolt resisted. “Just a second.” The lock popped. She threw the door open with a flourishing smile. “Good morn–”

  Her chest inflated with fear. A stocky man wearing a blue ski mask shoved her inside. He covered her mouth before a scream loosened. A piece of paper dropped from his hand. Footsteps fell behind her. She struggled, but she couldn’t escape his grip. A sharp jab pierced her bottom.

  Her pulse staggered. A needle. Oh dear, God.

  Dreaminess surged. Her focus failed.

  Clint was coming. He’d stop them.

  Maybe Clint would prefer waffles.

  Last night was lovely.

  Chapter Two

  According to Paige Masters, Clint’s almost ex-wife, he never noticed anything. But the white Chevy van pulling out of Beth’s road caught his attention. At least the sound of the V-8 engine rumbling under the hood did. Between a full-size and a mini, that van never left the factory boasting anything larger than a V-6. Dull and gutless by reputation, the piece of junk couldn’t get jacked during a riot.

  A throaty roar from the vehicle broke his expectation, like a Swedish accent from the lips of a black man. While the kiddies tried to give the illusion of raw power under the hood without the trouble of an actual engine swap, this van camouflaged its strength with exhaust silencers. Sporting rear-wheel drive and a torquey V-8, that homely white box could spank a Mustang in a quarter mile.

  Don’t say he didn’t notice anything. Hell yes, he noticed.

  Clint parked his black pickup on the main street of Clement, Massachusetts but stayed in the cab to finish his coffee while the seaside burg enjoyed the remaining minutes of slumber. He preferred walking down to Beth’s house so his black lab, Louie, could sniff the flora on the way. Beth’s road was nearly half a mile long and ran mostly downhill on a headland. It led to four houses and a winery. Each home occupied five wooded acres; and the winery, fifty. If Clint drove down to her house without letting Louie romp, then for the duration of their visit the young dog would whimper, paw the floor, and sulk.

  Clint had heard the van coming before it emerged from the patchy fog a car length away. Two swarthy men stayed behind blue-mirrored sunglasses and Red Sox ball caps as they crested the hill. Probably a delivery to the winery. In spite of not knowing these men, Clint waved, as a gesture.

  The men either didn’t see him or weren’t up for friendly this early. Neither waved back. The van’s rear tires spun, searching for a hold in the loose gravel. It lurched onto the roadway staying long enough for Clint to see a dirty patch of bumper sticker glue in the shape of Australia that adorned the back door. Virginia plates. It roared off toward the highway through the dissipating mist.

  A beautiful day barely underway. What’s the rush? Smell the flowers. Will ya?

  He emptied the last of the coffee from his paper cup and tossed it onto the floorboard before getting out of the truck. A glance to his watch showed the time as six twenty-two. He was early, but extra hungry. Somehow, that made up for the early.

  The ocean-side chill receded under the constant gaze of the new sun. He pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt back to the elbows. “C’mon, Louie.”

  The glossy black dog bounded from the back seat of the cab. A wag started at the tail and rippled through to the other end of his sleek body. A drooling red tongue flapped amid the pearly-whites of his mouth.

  “Good boy.” Clint clipped a leash on the leather collar and patted Louie’s firm flank. “Let’s go, Lou.”

  Louie led Clint on a tour of every white oak, sugar maple, and pitch pine before scampering up the porch to Beth Sutton’s door. A nineteenth century bungalow with the Atlantic Ocean slapping its back, the whole place boasted only 820 square feet. Clint lowered the anchor-shaped knocker onto the strike plate. She would hear the clatter from any room. Echoes settled into silence. He knocked again.

  No shower noises. Even if she were in there, she’d at least call out and tell him to wait. A growl undulated from Clint’s empty stomach. Beth specifically invited him to breakfast. He was early, but she ought to be up by now. He knocked again. Louder.

  Another full minute passed. Clint walked around to the back of the house and rapped on the kitchen door. He peered through a sliver of uncovered windowpane. The hemodialysis machine she named Dracula stood sentry at the bedroom wall. The doors to both her bedroom and bath were open. Her vacant computer table occupied the near corner in the still, Beth-less room.

  The next round of belly noises came with spikes. He turned around and leaned back against the gray clapboard house. He dropped the leash and closed his arms across his chest.

  Louie ran straight to a cricket hopping near the garage behind the house. He pounced but missed. It jumped out of his reach through a gap in the carriage door.

  Clint forgot to check for her car. Maybe she went out. The garage door lock dangled from the latch. He pushed the solid door in as much as the latch would allow. Even in the low light the small utility vehicle was easy to see.

  Beth probably stayed up late reading again or writing. She owed her editor some chapters but not until early next month. Maybe she had her treatment. She was due for one yesterday, but he’d stayed late. She said she felt washed out after dialysis. He should have gone home sooner so she was free to dialyze. She wouldn’t start a session with him around. It was selfish of him to linger, but time with her dissolved like sugar.

  Still, leaving a guy outside, a hungry guy–

  “This violates some rule of social etiquette. Right, Louie?”

  Louie pawed the ground. Being right didn’t fill his belly, and Clint still had to rouse her lovely butt.

  Damn. Moments like this rubbed. He couldn’t call her. He’d ditched his cell phone along with the rest of his electronic tethers, and he needed to find one. At this hour.

  He was the only one he knew without a cell phone: dockworkers, old ladies walking their ankle-biters, certainly all the drivers in all the cars in all the merging lanes of I-93 had one. Hell, even school kids. He could afford one. He just didn’t want one. Like so many people, most of that crap was unreliable.

  Beth’s neighbor Janet Raffety–she’d let him use the phone. He walked across the street and looked for any sign of activity. If she was working in the kiln, he didn’t want to disturb her. The house was quiet, but a glow came from her shop.

  The next pang hit him harder as the extra-bold French roast etched a hole in his stomach lining. Louie probed a Mayflower cluster when Clint caught the leash and went back to the truck. Louie scrambled into the back seat, and Clint drove off.

  Thirty-five miles from Boston, the tourist town of Clement had few businesses operating this time of year. Even fewer opened at this hour. Clint decided his best shot was near the freeway. The congregation of trucks outside Maggie Mae’s Blue Bird Diner lit his hope.

  Maggie Mae was a large, hairy man in his sixties with a round, fleshy face. Clad in a red-striped apron and matching cap, his picture could only be completed with the addition of a burning cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Armed with twin decanters of fresh coffee, he made his way round the tables of regulars chatting up each in turn. A quiet man by diner standards, he gave i
nstructions to the kitchen staff by means of hand gestures, facial expressions, and head movements–a performance Marcel Marceau would have admired.

  Clint found the pay phone by the restrooms–naturally. He dropped in some coins and called Beth.

  After four rings Beth’s voice answered, “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll return it when I can.”

  “Hey, it’s me. Pick up the phone.” He waited for the click of her receiver, for the happy lilt to her voice when she said his name, for a swift end to his growing sense of loss.

  “Beth, are you there? We had plans today, remember?” No reply. “I’ll try your other phone.”

  He smacked down the receiver. Damn it. They’d made a date. Breakfast was her idea, and she promised breakfast would be ready at six-thirty sharp. They planned to go fishing for striper and meet up with Abe later. It was nearly seven. Where the hell was she?

  After digging around his pocket, he came up with more change and placed a call to her cell phone. Voice mail kicked in after three rings. “It’s me, Clint. I’ve tried all the numbers I know. I’m going to grab something for us to eat and come back. Hope you’re up by then.”

  The clank of dishes rising from the dining room joggled Clint’s attention to his hunger. He ordered four breakfast burritos and coffee at the counter. He took the to-go bag and drove back to her house.

  He banged on her front door until his hand hurt. She would have heard that. Fear tiptoed through his veins. If she could.

  He ran to the kitchen window. From here, he could see her bed and Beth wasn’t in it. He moved to another window to check the bath. The shower curtain was pulled back, and unless she was in the tub, she wasn’t there either. Calm down. She’s in good health, considering. She’s not going to keel over from a day’s delay in her dialysis. At least that’s what she told him.

  “Enough of this. Let’s eat.”

  Clint turned on the water spigot long enough to make a puddle for the dog and plopped down on Beth’s porch rocker. His long legs draped over a milk can painted with rose buds, cherry blossoms, and blue hydrangeas that Beth said were the same hue as Clint’s eyes.

  Yeah. Sure.

  He poured salsa from a plastic ramekin onto one burrito and tossed another to Louie. The dog intercepted the package like an NFL cornerback. He hoisted the food around with his teeth, biting it and choking large chunks down his throat.

  Clint finished his meal and wadded all the trash back in the original bag. He took his boot knife out of the sheath and threw it into a tree. Louie retrieved it. With each toss, the knife stuck where he aimed. The activity helped pass the time and freed his brain for thinking. Interest in the game waned before he’d done any lasting damage to the bark.

  He stared at Beth’s door, but decided against trying again. “It’s her turn. Huh, Lou?”

  When he hit the road in front of Beth’s, he saw Janet pulling a large box from an old Subaru wagon. He called to her, and ran over to her side. “Allow me?”

  “Why thanks.” She hauled out another box. “These go in the shop.” She led the way.

  “I was looking for Beth. Have you seen her this morning?”

  “No, I’ve been loading my kiln. What’s up?”

  He stepped into the shop and set the box down. “I was due at her place for breakfast, but she’s not around.”

  They returned to the wagon for more boxes.

  Clint knew Beth hadn’t told Janet about the dialysis. Beth preferred to keep some details of her life private. After the continuing saga of Paige, he found such discretion refreshing.

  They landed the last load into Janet’s shop.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “If you see Beth, let her know I came by.”

  “Will do.”

  Louie led him back to the truck by the main road for the all-important tree survey. For a dog that lived on a boat, wooded lots represented the ultimate in luxury. Clint loaded Louie in the truck. He threw the bag with Beth’s burrito on the floorboard and drove off for home, spinning his rear wheels in the effort.

  Along the coast road, the surf vibrated with a crystalline sheen. They should have been out there by now, together. He and Beth.

  He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Not perfect, but simply enchanting. Ah hell, admit it, she was perfect. Her bamboo-shoot green eyes sparkled amid her heart-shaped face. Golden tresses cascaded in loose ringlets all the way to her gorgeous butt.

  Botticelli painted her only in his dreams.

  But beauty never kept Clint engaged. Not like his buddy, Todd. Todd swapped women like designer ties. For Clint the packaging intrigued but any genuine gift remained hidden inside.

  While Beth’s illness didn’t seem to worry her, it left him unnerved. She loomed fragile, ethereal, a morning mist that might seep through his hand. Like catching a butterfly, then opening your cupped hands slowly to see if it was there. When they were together, he caught himself checking to see if she was still in the room with him.

  He tousled Louie’s furry neck. “I’ve only known her two months. Who needs this?”

  Stood up by a damn butterfly.

  Clint pulled into Clement Marina and parked. Louie stood on alert while Clint cleaned out the last two days mail from his box.

  Merlin, one of the Clement Marina staff, walked up to them and sidled in close. “Guess what landed in your slip?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A lass. An angelfish. She came looking for you, so I let her in. You let me know if you want to throw her back, mate. I’ll get my net.”

  Jungle rhythms pummeled Clint’s chest. He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his pants. “Where is she?”

  “At your boat.” Merlin rubbed on his scraggly chin. “A real swimmer, that one.”

  Clint threw his backpack over a shoulder and headed to the security gate, down the gangway to his slip at the end of the dock. This time, Louie followed.

  He looked back at the dog. “Why’d she come here?” Louie’s expression didn’t change.

  Half the damn morning–gone. She knew they were meeting at her house. But he couldn’t stay mad because Beth was here, now.

  He hated this feeling. Neediness. It didn’t suit him. He didn’t want it to suit him. But his relief trumped any anger.

  She was here now. That’s all that mattered.

  She didn’t stand him up.

  She just changed the plans.

  She—

  She wasn’t Beth.

  Paige Masters sat on the port gunwale of Clint’s 45-foot sailboat. Even with the expansive view of the harbor, the glorious Atlantic beyond, there she sat filing her acrylic fingernails.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you. Your cell phone isn’t working.” She finally looked up at Clint. “What’s the matter? Can’t afford the payments anymore?” Her third-grade smile glowed with the intensity of a lighthouse as seen from the battered ship.

  For a moment, Clint stopped breathing.

  In less than five months, their divorce would be final.

  Technology and future ex-wives. Both highly unreliable.

  Description

  At CIA headquarters, a young officer discovers that terrorists may have commandeered their computer systems to launch an unauthorized mission. Elsewhere, conspirators abduct nine people to manipulate the rules of their game. Two disparate ambitions — Clint Masters becomes the reluctant link in the chain of danger.

  Ever since Clint’s almost ex-wife dumped him, he bobs along the Massachusetts coast in a sailboat with his black lab for company. He avoids all forms of technology, a counterintuitive effort for the burned-out founder of CatSat Laboratories. Tired of clutching the brass ring, he needed to untether, step off the corporate treadmill, and smell a flower. Fortunately, he met one, a beautiful, unspoiled woman who doesn’t treat him like a commodity. His relationship with Beth offers more promise than his marriage ever did, even if she is on dialysis for her recovering kidneys, un
til she disappears.

  In spite of the evidence, her family refuses to admit she’s in danger. Without routine dialysis, she won’t survive. As Clint realizes that he loves Beth, damn-near ex-wife Paige sashays back into his life with disturbing news.

  While the CIA young gun tracks his quarry, Clint enlists the help of two men to find Beth, a blithe Brit named Merlin, and Todd, his playboy partner-in-tech. But Clint must find Beth before her kidneys fail. And before someone unloads a bullet in his head.

  Chapter One

  By six-thirty a.m., Baxter Cruise lounged at the corner table of Whitney’s coffee bar, wiping away a frothy milk moustache with his sleeve. He swirled the dregs of a Cappuccino in the ceramic mug while a gangly freshman tried to make time with the surfer-girl barista. She was clearly uninterested. The young man’s frustration passed for entertainment while Baxter waited for Professor Sydney Mantis. Syd usually sent their client’s pitch-list via email, but today, he’d sent a text from a new phone demanding face time.

  Instead of wasting a precious morning, Baxter should’ve blasted another 225,000 emails or let his ratware scrape more addresses from the geezer forums. Either action would have netted him enough cash to cover the cost of the java and maybe some additional credits at UC Santa Cruz. He didn’t plan to get stuck with any student loans to repay.

  His fingertips hit the tabletop in rhythmic succession. He should have brought his laptop. Where the hell was Sydney? Didn’t he know? Time was money, man. Time was money.

  A petite woman with a UC-logo sweatshirt held the door for an elderly couple shuffling toward the entrance. Her cheeks dimpled as the couple kept pace with the old woman’s walker. When Sydney Mantis jockeyed around all three of them, her smile dropped to a scowl. Sydney’s usual easy charm seemed under pressure. Wearing a Baja hoodie and aviator sunglasses, he looked like the Unabomber.