And dump the shit they were carrying.
Because their cargo – Buster sipped more beer and shivered -was medical waste.
Used needles.
Contaminated bandages.
Infected blood.
Rotting human tissue.
Well, Buster thought and guzzled more beer, it's a dirty job -
– he forced himself to chortle -
– but some poor bastard has to do it. Especially for Don Vincenzo.
Despite the beer that cleared his head from this morning's hangover, Buster sobered.
Yeah, especially for Don Vincenzo. Because if you refuse the Don, you make him unhappy, and when the Don's unhappy, you get your knees broken. And that's only for starters. Fuck the Cuban cigars. When the Don's unhappy, he doesn't just have your knees broken. He butchers you.
And anyway, what's the harm in dumping the needles and the bandages into the ocean? Buster asked himself, wishing he'd thought to buy more beer. There's a land-fill crisis. That's what I read in the frigging papers. Too much garbage. Not enough space to get rid of all that shit. Too many frigging condominiums. Not enough holes in the ground. And nobody wants – what do they call them? – incinerators to get rid of medical waste. The damned yuppies think they'll get a disease if they breathe the smoke. But Don Vincenzo's got the biggest garbage-disposal outfit in eastern New Jersey. So where's he supposed to put all the junk, especially the crap from the hospitals?
The answer was simple.
There's plenty of ocean.
You bet. More than half the world, maybe three-quarters, is frigging water, isn't it? Plenty. I mean plenty of room for a few barges of needles and bandages.
Okay, all right, the tide sometimes works against us, Buster thought. Sometimes the shit drifts back toward land. Sometimes the needles and bandages float up on the beaches.
Give me a break. Is that my fault? I do my job. I dump the stuff. If the ocean works against me, I'm not to blame.
Yeah, he thought.
Sure.
So a few yuppies don't get to swim in the ocean for a couple of days while the junk's cleaned up.
So what?
Let the cleanup squad do its job while I do mine.
A buzzer sounded. Buster set down his beer and straightened. The buzzer was the signal that Big Joe and his brother had backed the truck toward the warehouse and were waiting for Buster to raise the door.
About time. Buster pressed a button. A rumble shook the rickety warehouse as its door rose. Big Joe's truck backed into the warehouse toward the barge containers. Its engine burping, the truck stopped.
Buster jabbed the button that lowered the rumbling door and stalked from his office. 'You're late,' he growled as the driver's door swung open.
But Big Joe didn't step down.
In his place, a man whom Buster had never met jumped lithely onto the concrete floor.
'Hi.' The man, in his thirties, in great shape, grinned.
'Who the hell are you?'
'I hate to say it, but Big Joe had an accident. Tragic. Terrible.'
'Accident? What kind of…?'
'Horrible. A fire. His trailer. Died in his sleep.'
'My God.' Buster wheezed. 'But Big Joe's brother…! Where is he? Does he know?'
'In a way.'
That doesn't make sense! Either he does, or he doesn't!'
'Well, he did, that's for sure,' the handsome, robust stranger said. 'But he doesn't anymore. See, he's dead. Another fire. Awful. His house burned down last night.'
'What are you telling me?'
'You're next.'
With a bang, the truck's passenger door jolted open, two men leaping down.
Buster rubbed his eyes. The other men resembled the first man.
Trim.
Lithe.
Handsome.
Tawny skin.
Early thirties.
As they neared him, Buster realized that they resembled each other in a further way. It had to be a trick of the light. They all seemed to have gray eyes.
'So, Buster, we've got a problem,' the first man said.
'Oh, yeah?' Buster stepped backward and raised his famous right fist. 'What problem?'
'The needles. The bandages. The contaminated blood. You're poisoning the ocean.'
'Hey, all I'm doing is what Don Vincenzo tells me.'
'Sure. Well, you don't need to take his orders anymore. Don Vincenzo's dead.'
'What?
'Would you believe it? Amazing. Really. No kidding. Yet another fire.'
Buster stumbled farther backward. 'What the fuck? Hey, don't come any closer! I'm warning you!'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah.' With unbelievable agility, the first man ducked under Buster's jabbing fists, avoided the former contender's famous right hook, and slammed his nose so hard that Buster fell to the floor, seeing double, spewing blood.
'Listen carefully,' the man said. 'We're not going to burn you.'
Sickened by his pain and his doubled vision, Buster wheezed in relief. He had to admit that any of these three men were in better condition than any opponent he'd faced. If they were willing to bargain, maybe he had a chance.
'So you'll let me go?' Buster wished that he'd never met, had never surrendered to Don Vincenzo.
'Afraid not,' the man said. 'Actions have consequences. But flames aren't always the best deterrent. Sometimes the punishment has to fit the crime. A different example is often required. Just a moment before I show you.'
The three men put on surgical facemasks, gowns, and rubber gloves.
'Jesus!' Buster said.
'If that's your preference. My companions will now hold you down.'
'No!'
'Don't resist. Your death will be more painful.'
As Buster squirmed and struggled and screamed, while two men held him down, the other man shoved a handkerchief into Buster's mouth to silence him. Then the man adjusted his rubber gloves and proceeded to unscrew various red plastic containers on the truck, pull out numerous contaminated hypodermic needles, and plunge each of them into various portions of Buster's body.
His arms.
His legs.
His throat.
His groin.
His eyes.
Wherever.
When the three men were finished, after they left the warehouse and the body was finally discovered, the newspapers described the corpse as a pincushion.
Inaccurate. Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was really a needle-cushion, and if the thousands of points shoved into every portion of his body hadn't killed him, at least one of the diseases from those many infected needles would have eventually led to his death, that is if his lung cancer from his years of smoking cigars hadn't killed him first.
TWO
Lieutenant Craig's apartment was a one-room efficiency in the cramped basement of a converted townhouse on Bleecker Street in lower Manhattan. Once he'd owned a house in Queens, or at least the bank had, but four years ago, his former wife had gained title to the property during their divorce agreement.
Craig dearly wished he was back there. Not because of the house. He'd never liked mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, or doing any of the other chores that a house required, although the truth was that his work had kept him so busy he'd seldom been home to do those chores – or to pay enough attention to his wife and two children.
That's what he really missed, not the damned house but his family. Some nights, his heart ached so fiercely that he couldn't sleep and he lay on his back on his fold-out bed, staring at the ceiling. How he wished to God that he'd tried harder.
But Craig had discovered that marriage and police work seldom mixed. Because being a cop was like having a second marriage, and a cop's wife could get as jealous about his work as she could about another woman. So many other guys in his department were divorced as well. The only good thing was that at least Craig's former wife had been generous about his visitation privileges. He did his best to spend time with his son and daughter on wee
kends, probably more time than when he'd been married, but the trouble was that his children were in their teens now, and being with their father didn't excite them as it had when they were toddlers.
I sure made a mess of things, Craig thought as he entered his shower, closed the door, and turned on the faucets. Hot water stung him. So what am I thinking! How come I want to get involved with a woman who's ten years younger than me? Am I nuts? The only reason Tess and I are connected is the trouble she's having. When that gets settled -
– you mean, if -
– no, when -
– hey, don't get pessimistic -
– she'll want nothing to do with me. She certainly didn't sound enthusiastic about the idea of a friendship, a close friendship, when I talked to her on the phone last night.
Craig increased the lancing pulse of hot water, rinsed shampoo from his hair, and shook his head. Hey, what do you expect? She's in mourning. Never mind that she met her friend, whoever Joseph Martin really was, only three times. There's a good chance somebody's following her. She's preoccupied, not to mention scared. Your timing was lousy.
He shut off the water, stepped from the narrow shower stall (there wasn't a bathtub), and toweled himself dry. With the meticulousness of a divorced man who'd come to realize the tremendous amount of maintenance that his former wife had done and he'd never noticed, he used a squeegee to wipe water off the shower stall so there wouldn't be lime stains. He'd already shaved. All he needed to do was comb his hair, slap on some aftershave, dab on a little deodorant (the maintenance never ended), get dressed, and make himself eat breakfast.
In his bedroom – which was also his living room and his kitchen – Craig started to boil water for coffee. By habit, he turned on his radio to catch the news, and on impulse, he picked up the phone. It might not be a smart idea. He'd probably be repeating his mistake. All the same, he felt a compulsion to talk to Tess, to explain that he was sorry for putting pressure on her. He read the note he'd made last night when she'd told him her mother's phone number, and as he pressed buttons on the phone, he vaguely heard the radio announcer describe a new round of mortar battles that had broken out between the Christians and Moslems in Beirut. Why don't they get their shit together? Craig thought and listened to the long-distance static.
He heard a buzz.
Another buzz.
And then a female voice, not Tess's, in fact not even a human voice but one of those robot-sounding computer simulations.
'The number you have called is not in service.'
Not in service? Craig frowned. I must have pressed the wrong buttons.
He studied the note he'd made, wondering if he'd written down the wrong numbers, and tried to phone again.
'The number you have called is not in service.'
Jesus, I did write down the wrong numbers.
Boiling water made the kettle shriek. Craig turned off the stove, frowned harder as he spooned instant coffee into a cup, then stiffened when the radio announcer said,
'… completely destroyed a mansion in an exclusive district of Alexandria, Virginia.'
Alexandria ?
A premonition made Craig lunge toward the radio to increase the volume.
'Three people trying to escape the blaze were shot and killed. Two servants and Melinda Drake,' the announcer said.
Craig's throat constricted.
'Widow of Remington Drake, former State Department envoy who was tortured to death by Moslem extremists six years ago in Beirut. Authorities have not been able to identify the assailants or determine their motive for the slayings, but fire investigators have concluded that the blaze was due to arson.'
Arson? Two servants? Tess's mother?
But what about-?
Craig grabbed the phone, jabbed the numbers for information, got other numbers, jabbed them, got through to Alexandria information, and finally reached the Alexandria…
'Police department,' a gruff man said.
'Homicide.' Craig struggled to control his breathing.
Click. Buzz. Silence.
Come on! Come…!
'Homicide,' a husky-throated woman said.
'My name is William Craig.' Another struggle to control his trembling voice. 'I'm a lieutenant in the Missing Persons division of the New York City police department. My badge number is… My superior's name is… His office phone number is… I'm calling from my home. If you want, I'll give you that number while you verify who I am.'
'Before we get complicated, Lieutenant, why don't you catch your breath and tell me what you need?'
'The arson at Melinda Drake's house. The gunshot victims. Did you find another victim? The daughter. Tess Drake.'
'No. Only the servants and the… What do you know about a daughter, Lieutenant? Why would you think she was at the house? What's your interest in this matter?'
'I… It's too complicated. I need to think. I'll call you back.' Craig slammed down the phone.
Tess was safe!
No.
A sudden fierce thought made him grip the kitchen counter. What if she didn't escape the fire? What if she died in the house? What if the investigators hadn't found her body yet?
Trembling, Craig yanked open a cupboard and grabbed for the Yellow Pages, desperate to make a reservation on the soonest flight to Washington National Airport. He'd rent a car there and drive to…
His hands faltered. Abruptly he shut the directory.
What the hell good would I do in Alexandria? I'd be useless. All I'd do is end up pacing, watching the investigators search the mansion's wreckage.
But I've got to do something.
Think! Hope! All you know for sure is that two servants and Tess's mother were shot while they tried to escape the flames.
But that doesn't mean Tess didn't manage to escape.
Please. Oh, Jesus, please, let her be all right.
If she escaped…
What would she do? Obviously she'd be frightened. She'd hide from whoever had tried to kill her.
And then?
Maybe…
Just maybe she'd call me.
Who else can she turn to? Who else does she know she can trust and depend on? I might be the only hope she's got.
THREE
Afraid, Tess felt naked. Shivering despite the morning's humidity, she rang the mansion's doorbell again. She kept glancing nervously beyond the trees and shrubs in the large front yard toward the hedge-flanked entrance to the driveway. So far she'd been lucky. Since she'd lunged to the porch, no cars had passed along the narrow quiet street, but if any did, and if the drivers noticed her, and if one of those cars belonged to the men who'd tried to kill her…!
Hurry. The next time she pressed the doorbell, Tess didn't take her thumb from the button. Another fear made her tremble. What if the mansion wasn't occupied? What if the Caudills had gone to their summer place in Maine? Desperate, she wondered if she ought to break in. No! There'll be burglar alarms!
Her childhood friend had long since moved away, first to college and then with her husband to San Francisco, but the parents still owned this mansion, and during the night, while Tess had hidden in the damp, black, constricting alcove behind the boulders in the back yard fountain, she'd ignored the increasing pain in her cramped muscles and struggled to focus her grief-filled, terror-racked thoughts in an effort to decide what to do next. Although the answer had been obvious, her confusion had been so great that it had taken her until the morning to remember that the people who owned this mansion had once been like a second set of parents to her.
As the skin beneath her thumbnail whitened from the force with which she pressed the doorbell, Tess's hope dwindled, her fear increasing. Please!
Abruptly she breathed as the door was jerked open. A rigid butler scowled, surveying her grimy jeans, torn pullover, soot-covered face, and grungy, spider-web-tangled hair.
'Mrs Caudill?' Tess said. 'Please! Is she here?'
'Mrs Caudill donates to shelters for the homeless. There are s
everal downtown.' The butler began to shut the door.
Tess shoved her hand against the door. 'You don't understand!'
'Mrs Caudill can not be disturbed.' The butler straightened and grimaced, his nostrils twitching. Tess realized that her clothes must reek from smoke, sweat, and fear. 'I'll be forced to call the police if you don't leave.'
'No! Listen to me!' Tess said. She pushed at the door.
The butler resisted.
'My name's Tess Drake! Mrs Caudill knows me!' Heart pounding, she heard a car approach along the street and squirmed urgently to get through the narrow opening.
The butler struggled to block her way.
'I'm a friend of Mrs Caudill's daughter!' Tess said and fought to shoulder the butler aside. 'I used to come here often! Mrs Caudill knows me! Tell her it's-'
'Tess?' a puzzled woman said in the background. 'Tess? Is that you?'
'Mrs Caudill! Please! Let me in!'
On the street, the car sounded nearer.
'That's fine, Thomas. Open the door,' the unseen woman said.
'Very well, Madame.' The butler glared at Tess. 'As you wish.'
The car was close to the mansion's driveway as Tess darted through the door. The butler shut it, muffling the sound of the car.
Tess paused and breathed deeply. She clutched her purse – it felt heavy with its added burden of the photographs, the book, and the handgun – and gazed in relief at Mrs Caudill, who stood in the foyer, near the entrance to the mansion's dining room.
Mrs Caudill was fifty-five, short, somewhat stout, with pudgy cheeks that were emphasized by the circular rims of her glasses. She wore a brilliantly colored, Oriental housecoat, and blinked in surprise, apparently not only because of Tess's unexpected arrival but as well because of her disheveled appearance. 'Good Lord, Tess! Are you all right?'
'Now I am.'
'The fire! Last night, I could see the flames from my bedroom window. The sirens wakened me. Where have you been! What happened to you?'
Although her legs were stiff, Tess managed to hurry toward her. 'Thank God, you're home. Mrs Caudill, I need help. I'm sorry for barging in like this, but-'
The Covenant Of The Flame Page 21
