Doc - 19 - Chasing Midnight

by Randy Wayne White

  “Nope, absolutely not. We’ve got to put a stop to this existential bullshit. It’s all about getting derailed into the wrong dimensions, you know.”

  Spooked by his own seriousness, maybe, he tried to downplay it by saying he could invoke a trance that would cloak him from bullets, before adding, “If not, I’ve always wondered what the goat feels like when it’s waiting for the lion.”

  I was searching the third floor, where I had seen what I assumed to be restaurant staff huddled together in a guest room. The room was at the back of the lodge, though, and the TAM’s heat sensors failed to pierce the interceding walls.

  After a quick sweep of the second floor, I focused on the dining-room area where Sharon and her friends were being held. At first, I was heartened by what I saw: a female shape was walking toward the next room unrestrained. But then I realized it was Winifred Densler when she stopped at the bar and poured what was probably vodka into a glass radiant with heat from her fingers.

  Nearby, two males—Kahn and one of the Neinabor twins, gauging from their height—stood talking. Kahn was bouncing something in his left hand with the jauntiness of some speakeasy gangster flipping a coin at a bus stop. I couldn’t identify the object. It was an amorphous shape with a rhythmic liquidity that appeared to change in size as it moved.

  As I watched, Kahn and Neinabor turned in unison when a third male descended into the room from the stairway. It was Trapper, just arrived from his lookout post, in a hurry to spread the news about the helicopter. He must have been talking loud enough to be heard in the trophy room because the second Neinabor twin soon appeared.

  It was Odus, and he was mad about something, as usual. He was easy to identify because of the wild arm gestures as he confronted Kahn, close enough to stand chin to chin if Odus had been six inches taller.

  Beside me, Tomlinson whispered, “Are the women okay? What do you see?”

  “If any of them were alive when we got here,” I told him, “they’re safe for now. All four of your symbiotic brothers are in the bar, too busy to shoot anyone. I think they’re arguing about the helicopter, what they should do next. Densler’s in the bar, too. Drunk and getting drunker.”

  “Doc, I feel shitty enough without the sarcasm.”

  The man was right. I’d pushed it too far. “Sorry. That was unfair.” I tilted the monocular away from my eye and said, “Let’s move while they’re arguing. You ready?”

  “Ready, willing and unstable.”

  I collected the rifle and checked the pistol’s magazine one last time. It was an expensive piece, a 9mm Smith & Wesson, one round in the chamber, eleven stacked and waiting, ivory grips and a chrome-plated body with lots of complicated engraving. It could have belonged to Kazlov or Armanie—both were garish enough to own such a weapon.

  As I levered the hammer back and engaged the safety, I said, “I’m curious. How’d you get this pistol? Your hands were taped, and Armanie’s a fairly tough guy. Or was, anyway.” I hadn’t asked earlier because when police are involved, sometimes the less you know, the better.

  Because it was dark, I couldn’t tell if Tomlinson was smiling as he replied, “I used my mystic trance of invisibility. Great for women’s shower rooms and stealing guns. Tomorrow, at Dinkin’s Bay, we’ll start your lessons. It takes years to learn.”

  I said, “Deal,” then sprinted toward the side window of the fishing lodge.

  21

  Sharon Farwell was still alive. So were her friends—the nicest surprise so far in this long, long night.

  I had slipped along the edge of the building, through a hedge of jasmine, lifted one eye to the window and there they were. The ladies sat a few yards away against a wall, hands still tied behind them, Sharon in the middle with her exhausted friends resting their heads on her shoulders.

  It was a touching scene, but I didn’t let my attention linger. Tomlinson was watching me from the shadows, awaiting my signal. It was almost deadline time—and his nerves were too brittle to go for long without communicating. I ducked beneath the window, then stood with my back to the wall so the man could see me. I gave him a thumbs-up, which he might or might not interpret correctly. Next, I held up a fist, which meant Halt or Wait, depending on the circumstances as my occasional scuba partner knew. After the man replied with a thumbs-up, I returned to the window. I didn’t want to move until I’d done my best to fix the positions of everyone in the lodge—most importantly, the Neinabor twins.

  Sharon was awake. I watched her try to wiggle her legs into a more comfortable position, then say something to her friends. Yes, they were all alive. It was reason enough to continue with our plan to surprise the twins and disarm them, preferably alive. I had no moral reservations about shooting one or both, but that would guarantee long sessions with police. Worse, it would make headlines. Killing the brothers would put my freedom in jeopardy and compromise my low-profile lifestyle at Dinkin’s Bay. The same was now true of Tomlinson, whose guilt was unambiguous if a smart cop took an interest. Terminating the lives of two sociopaths was sensible, in my Darwinian view of the world, but it wasn’t practical, considering the risks.

  I looked beyond the dining room, through open French doors that revealed a portion of the bar. The first thing I noticed was the incongruity of a photographer’s vest, pockets laden, hanging on a hat rack near the door. The irony caused me to smile. Kahn, or the twins, had placed the vest there for safekeeping but in fact might have provided me with an another weapon. But how could I use it?

  I let my subconscious consider the options while I shifted my attention to what was going on in the bar.

  Densler was there. She had passed out, her upper body sprawled across a table where a stub of candle burned. And I could see one of the twins—Odus, I guessed. He was still arguing with Trapper and Kahn, although they were blocked from my view. I confirmed it by using thermal vision to count the heat signatures on the other side of the wall. Four people in all, which meant that Geness had probably returned to his trophy room, the office where they were holding Darius Talas.

  That accounted for all but one person, not counting the employees hiding upstairs. Where was Umeko? I hadn’t seen her since we’d left for Armanie’s rental house and her absence was disturbing. We’d heard two gunshots, yet the women from Captiva Island were still alive. Who had the twins executed? Talas was a possibility, or maybe the four staff members had been rousted from their hiding place on the third floor. Umeko was a more likely choice, though, because the twins already suspected she was a spy. If Talas had been forced to confess that she was also Lien Bohai’s daughter, it would have sealed her fate.

  I barely knew Umeko, but I was impressed by her resilience and intellect—a tad intimidated, too. Because it was painful to believe she’d been executed, I considered a more hopeful possibility: Geness Neinabor had fired those shots into the ground to torment me. And also to remind me that he was awaiting the truth about how he and his brothers would be judged. That he believed my fanciful lie would have been amusing if it didn’t illustrate how crazy the man actually was. On the other hand, maybe it had awakened Geness’s conscience to the possibility that murder was wrong. No… that was wishful thinking. Abraham, his alter ego, wouldn’t tolerate it.

  Thinking about the dead triplet caused me to test the rifle’s scope by shouldering the weapon, centering the crosshairs on the photographer’s vest, then lowering it to a side pocket that bulged with the weight of one of my homemade weapons.

  But which weapon?

  There was no way of knowing, that was the problem. One of the jars contained an incendiary mix that required a flame to ignite it. In movies, a bullet might cause a gas tank to explode, but that doesn’t work in real life. Only a few paces away, though, the candle sputtered on the table where Densler slept, its flame burrowing its way through the wax.

  I thought about it for a moment, then aimed the rifle at Odus Neinabor, taking my time, breathing into my belly, as I steadied the scope’s crosshairs so that they segmen
ted the man’s temple. My timing was good because, at that instant, the twin checked his watch and yelled to his brother, “Hey, Geness! It’s time. Ford’s not back yet!” which I heard faintly through the window.

  Sadly, Sharon and her friends heard it, too. Their vocal reaction was a garble of panic that ascended into a wail so heartbreaking that I was tempted to shatter the window, shoot Odus and anyone else who threatened the women.

  Instead, I turned and signaled Tomlinson to action. Immediately, the man stepped into the open and strode toward the front porch, calling, “I’m back! Stop everything! I found Kazlov, I found Kazlov!” which was exactly as we’d planned.

  I spun toward the window and this time aimed the rifle at Neinabor’s chest because he was moving and still talking as he pulled his semiauto pistol from his waistband. At this range, the scope was a liability. The rifle was a cut-down knockoff of a Remington 800, but the scope was an expensive Leupold, elevation and windage knobs clearly marked, with a side-mounted parallax adjustment. It was an instrument designed for long-range targets, which is why I couldn’t get it focused on Odus, who was less than fifteen yards away.

  The Smith & Wesson pistol was in the waistband of my shorts, but the rifle was still a better option. The twin would have been a can’t-miss kill at this distance. A target didn’t have to be in focus to be obliterated by the weapon’s heavy grain bullet, so I had my finger on the trigger, ready to shoot, when the twin heard Tomlinson’s voice and stopped. I watched Odus pause, surprised. Then he looked at his pistol as if disappointed and tilted his head to yell, “Hey, Geness! Mr. Freaky-Freak is back!”

  It wasn’t until Odus turned toward the front door, though, that I moved my finger to the outside of the trigger guard… hesitated… then squared the crosshairs on the photographer’s vest once again, breathing with purpose because anxiety was creating a growing pressure within me. Where the hell was Geness Neinabor? Certainly he’d heard his brother calling. The guy was wearing a wristwatch, so he knew our deadline had passed. I’d already decided that if Geness didn’t appear, our plan was doomed—and so was Odus Neinabor because I would shoot him if he so much as lifted his pistol toward Tomlinson.

  Both eyes open, I kept the rifle steady and also watched Odus as he started toward the door, which was on the opposite side of the room. I was still thinking of a way to use the concoctions I’d made if Geness didn’t appear. Only one of the jars contained an incendiary. It was a last-ditch offensive weapon that I had made to maim or possibly kill. The other two jars, though, were potent but not lethal. They contained a chemical combination that might be as effective as tear gas—theoretically, anyway.

  I was thinking, If it’s the incendiary jar, the spray might reach the candle, but knew the odds weren’t good enough to risk it.

  As I waited, Tomlinson was closing on the porch, still summoning attention, calling, “Stop everything, I found Kazlov!” while I sent him a telepathic reminder even though I don’t believe telepathy: No closer than ten paces, damn it!

  At the same moment, Kahn and Trapper appeared from behind the dining-room wall and crossed in front of the scope’s crosshairs. Neither man carried a weapon, which suggested that the helicopter’s arrival had scared the hell out of them and they were done trying to prove they were killers. Instead, Kahn had something else in his hand. It took me a moment to figure out that it was the same amorphous object I had been unable to identify with thermal vision.

  It was the third jar.

  Kahn had taken the thing from the photographer’s vest and left the other two. Now, as he followed Neinabor toward the door, he continued to bounce it in his hand just as he had in the VIP cottage.

  For an instant, I looked away from the scope, toward the bar, where I hoped the second twin would materialize. Geness not only didn’t appear, he still hadn’t responded to his brother, who was now only a few steps from the entranceway, where, as I had anticipated, he would disappear briefly before exiting the front door. I’d also known that Tomlinson would be unprotected for those very dangerous few seconds it would take the Neinabors to cross the porch—which is why I’d told him to stop where I could keep an eye on him. The risk had seemed manageable, but only because we expected the twins to be together.

  The danger wasn’t manageable now, though. Geness—and his manic alter ego—could be anywhere, armed with a pistol or a rifle, watching Tomlinson. I decided I had to shift gears and change the momentum because our plan was falling apart.

  I glanced to my right and saw Tomlinson stop where he was supposed to stop, ten strides from the porch, hands above his head, in darkness. Then, inexplicably, the man resumed walking toward the lodge and vanished from my view.

  What the hell is he thinking?

  In a rush, I pressed my eye to the scope and swung the crosshairs toward Odus. I had to shoot him. Killing the man was suddenly my only option—but I was too late. I got just a glimpse of his back before he disappeared into the entranceway, already reaching for the door.

  Simultaneously, a spotlight from the second floor came on, and I could only imagine it isolating my pal in glacial light, as a voice boomed, “Where is Ford? He’s hiding somewhere. Tell us or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

  It was Geness Neinabor’s monster voice. Brother Abraham was back.

  In one motion, I drew the semiautomatic pistol, took a giant step to the corner of the building and swung the pistol toward the spotlight. Yelling, “Over here—leech!” I fired two rapid shots that caused Geness to drop the light and duck for cover—but not before he’d gotten off two rounds, one of them splintering wood a foot above my head. I took a third shot at the darkened window, aware that Odus had retreated inside and that Tomlinson was on his belly, facedown.

  Had he been shot?

  No… Because when I moved toward him, calling, “Hey! Are you hit?” he jumped to his feet and sprinted toward me, sounding hysterical as he yelled, “He’s crazy as ten loons! That midget tried to shoot me, the Buddha can kiss my pacifist ass!”

  I was already charging toward the side window, the rifle still in my left hand but the pistol ready in case I saw one of the twins coming toward the ladies from Captiva.

  Behind me, Tomlinson dived behind the corner of the building, still yelling, “Goddamn bullet came this close to my ear.”

  At the window, I shielded my eyes to look. No sign of the twins, but I could see Kahn standing over shards of broken glass and steaming liquid, a pained expression on his face. Instantly, I perceived what had happened. It was confirmed when the man recoiled from the mess, tried to fan it from his face and then ran toward the bar’s back exit.

  The gunshots had caused Kahn to drop the jar he’d been toying with.

  As I watched, steam emanating from the chemicals began to assemble as an ascending fog. Not quickly, as it was supposed to do, but it was definitely spreading. One jar, though, wouldn’t be enough to evacuate the entire lower floor. So I leaned the rifle against the wall, then tapped on the window to prepare Sharon and her friends for what was about to happen. When I had their attention, I used the pistol to shatter the window, ready for the screams of surprise from inside.

  “Sharon, it’s me, Ford. Your ears, cover your ears. Do it now!”

  It took three shots to shatter both jars, spattering glass and liquid across the barroom, then I called to the women, “If your eyes start burning, it’s harmless. We’ll get you out.”

  Sharon’s cry of relief—“Awwwww, it’s Doc!”—followed me as I grabbed Tomlinson’s arm and pulled him to his feet.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  Tomlinson was slapping sand off his shirt, his hands, the man’s expression a blend of rage and indignation. “This goddamn close, I’m telling you. And the lunatic was grinning at me. Like shooting me was fun!”

  I told him, “Calm down. I need your help,” but he was too mad to listen.

  “I saw the freak’s eyes when he fired! Yellow goat’s eyes—slits like a damn snake—and horns, too! Sata
n’s been after my ass for years, now it’s time to turn the tables on that son of a bitch!”

  I levered the pistol’s safety and slapped the weapon into Tomlinson’s hands. “We’ve got to get in there. Use this to cover my back—only six rounds left. Can you do that?”

  The man was saying, “Damn right—” but his words were swallowed by the gasoline BOOM of a fireball that shattered windows from inside the bar.

  22

  I could hear Winifred screaming from inside, so I hollered to Tomlinson, “Get Sharon and take them out the window,” then ran into the lodge and turned toward the bar.

  Fumes from the incendiary had caused the explosion, but pools of flaming liquid had yet to ignite the wooden floor. There wasn’t much smoke, but, as I approached the bar, I slammed into a wall of capsicum gas so potent that it almost knocked me down. Capsicum—the alkaloid that gives chili peppers their heat. It’s the key ingredient in tactical tear gas, as well as my homemade version—compliments of Tomlinson’s Amazon habanero sauce.

  I stopped, cracked the door so I could grab a breath and then crawled into the bar area on my hands and knees to avoid the fumes.

  Densler didn’t appear badly hurt, but she was in shock. She’d been thrown from her chair and now sat among the flames, knees cradled against her chest, sobbing childlike as she rocked. Her eyes were closed against the searing sting of the gas, but she stirred when she heard me enter.

  “Markus… is that you? I can’t see! Help me, Markus!”

  The woman’s hair was singed—I could smell the stink—and part of her blouse had been torn away. But her face wasn’t blistered, so I doubted the explosion had blinded her, although it was possible.