by Chris Knopf
I repeated the process, this time attempting to put each column in order of priority, which helped. At the top of the knowns was, "Axel ran away." At the top of the
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unknowns was, "What does Hammon have over Fey?" I drew a two-ended arrow between the two, and wrote over it, "Connection?"
I continued on down the columns, drawing more horizontal and diagonal lines. It provided no answers, but did give clarity to the questions. It wasn't until I could no longer read by the fading sun that I put away the pad, reluctantly.
The weather report had called for a clear night, but the moon was scheduled to stay below the horizon past midnight, then rise as little more than a sliver. I stood at the edge of the field and looked into darkness. Across the field, several hundred yards away, was another stand of trees, interrupted at irregular intervals by the ridge lines of tall houses. Working off memory and the map, briefly lit by the pocket flashlight held in my mouth, I strode confidently into the field. It was mostly tall grass, but a lot lumpier than it looked that afternoon. I was glad to be wearing light hiking boots and blue jeans, but I kept an easy pace, afraid of twisting an ankle, or worse. Thus engaged, I reached the other side and saw no sign of the right-of-way, which, according to the map was an unpaved tractor path.
I checked the compass, flicking the flashlight on and off as quickly as I could. I was a few fractional degrees off where I was supposed to be, so I course-corrected and in a few minutes almost tripped on to the right-of-way. It was the width of a regular road and paved with gravel. I followed it to the street.
I checked the compass again to get my bearings and was happy to see the waypoint I'd marked on the map line up with reality. I'd waited for this moment to formulate the next part of the plan, but all I could come up with was to walk
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along the road, keep my eye out for vehicles, and scramble for a place to hide should one come along.
None did, saving my nerves and dignity, until I reached the intersection of Page Lane and Humboldt's Crossing, when the trees above lit up and both nerves and dignity took their losses.
From an uneasy vantage point under some sort of bristling shrub, I saw the car slow down and turn onto Humboldt's Crossing. It was one of Sound Security's blue and white tin cans. I couldn't make out the driver as the car passed by, but I could track the taillights as it moved down the road, beyond where Two Trees had fingered the Hillman place.
Assuming a reasonable amount of time would pass before the area had another drive-through by security, I felt less exposed during the ten minutes it took me to reach the Hillman's house. As promised, a sign next to the mailbox freely disclosed the presence of an elaborate and deadly accurate electronic alarm and closed-circuit TV system. Below the headline was some small print that likely went into the types of punishment intruders would assuredly receive, but I didn't risk the flashlight just to find out for sure.
As I walked down the driveway, I took note of trees and clusters of shrubbery visible in the dim light, any place I might hide if the security car came back this way. The house in front of me was tall, but narrow, with two clear stories and a third formed by large dormers set in the roof. The three-car garage was joined to the east side, the bays facing the street. I walked around and leaned against the garage wall as I forced my hands into a pair of surgical gloves, also filched from the boat's safety supplies. I looked in the garage window. There were two cars covered by what looked like fitted canvas—one big, one little. I continued around to the back of the house, with only starlight to see the condition of the windows and doors.
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I'd been moving silently over grass and brick paths, and was jarred by an ugly sound when I opened the basement hatch, the rusted flap hinges complaining the way they often do. I froze with the door partly open and waited, holding my breath and straining my ears.
Nothing. I waited another few minutes, then as slowly as my arms would allow, eased the hatch door the rest of the way open. There was another door at the bottom of the stairwell. As lightly as I could, I descended the stairs and tried the knob. It opened.
Now it was really dark. I saw nothing, and Gwyneth's map wasn't going to help. It wasn't the first time I'd been in a jet black basement I wasn't supposed to be in, unsure of security measures and mindful of the way a little sound can get very big in a silent house. The key was finding the electrical panel, which would confirm or deny the existence of electronic surveillance, and tell you other things if you knew what you were looking for.
Panels are usually on exterior walls, so I turned right and started feeling my way along, using one hand to search for the box, the other for obstacles in my path. It was slow going, and after a painful, albeit silent bang to my knee, got slower still.
No darkness is absolute once your pupils reach maximum dilation. And even through the gloves, my hands were teaching me a lot about the space. It was furnished, with pictures on the walls, stuffed chairs and sofas, and coffee tables, like the one I'd encountered with my knee. So when I hit a perpendicular wall, sooner than I should have, I guessed that the utilities for the house were on the other side.
I turned the corner and continued to follow the wall, until I touched what should have been proof of the theory— an inside door. I felt for the knob, which was round and smooth. No lock. The knob turned soundlessly and I opened the door.
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Sparkling red and yellow lights told me the electric panel was likely to the left of where I stood. I shut the door behind me and thought, at this point—entirely enclosed in the working part of the basement—I could afford to use the flashlight. So I slipped it out of its holster on my belt and shot it in the general direction of the panel, lighting up the face of Axel Fey, who was standing less than ten feet away.
chapter
18
So much for silence. His scream was probably louder than my grunt, and certainly higher pitched. I leaped forward and grabbed him by the top of his shirt.
"Don't kill me," he cried.
"Shut up," I whispered as loudly as I could, Anika-style. "It's Sam Acquillo. The boat guy who's been staying at the Swan."
"I'm going to fucking die of sheer terror," said Axel, slumping slightly in my grip. "My heart's rupturing in my chest, I can feel it."
"You're not dying. Here, sit down," I said, dragging him down with me.
From where we sat on the floor I scanned the area with my flashlight. There was a mattress near the panel, with a pile of cans and plastic water jugs nearby. Axel's laptop was on an old wooden milk crate pulled up to the mattress. A power cord and Ethernet cable swooped up to the panel. Candles in candle holders circled the bed.
"I got to hand it to you, Axel. You worked it out."
"Not good enough. You can't take me back there," he said, almost as one sentence.
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"How come?"
"Not as long as the Gestapo are there."
"What's the big deal with them?" I asked.
It was hard to read his face even in perfect light, but I tried anyway with the flashlight.
"Could you stick that thing somewhere else? I'm going blind."
"Sorry. So what's with Hammon and company?"
"I'm not at liberty to say, okay? They can't be there forever. I can stay here till next spring. You wouldn't believe how much shit there is in this house. Cheap brands, but who cares."
"You could still get caught," I said.
"I did get caught, but you're smarter than the goon squad who stops by at the exact same time every day and spends the exact same minutes walking around the house in the exact same direction. Morons."
"No argument there. So they've been here already?"
"Yeah," he said, turning the word into two syllables the way kids do when you've insulted their tender sensibilities.
"So I wonder why I saw one of their cars head down the street about a half-hour ago."
"I don't know," he said. "I only know they come here once a day. Max."
"Good," I said. "So pack up your stuff. We're getting out of here."
Even with the light turned away, I could see the force of his reaction.
"Don't you listen? I said no way. You can't make me."
I told him about the additions to Hammon's posse, including their alleged background and capabilities. He wavered.
"If I could find you, they can, too," I said. "They could be on their way here now. I don't know what happens after that, but I bet you do."
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"Shit."
"I'm the best thing you got right now, Axel. Better than hiding in a cave waiting for the end to come."
I watched while he jammed stuff into his backpack. It was smaller than mine, but neatly fit his laptop, some clothes, an iPod, a variety of cords and a toothbrush. I pointed the flashlight at his worn-out high-top sneakers.
"Are those your only pair of shoes?"
"What's wrong with them?"
"Nothing. Follow me."
I led the way to the basement hatch and out to the backyard. The little orange slice of a moon was struggling to get above the horizon, but it was still mostly a world of black and slightly blacker shapes and shadows, especially now that my night vision had been compromised by the flashlight. Axel lurched along behind me, literally clinging to my coattails.
We were about to turn the corner around the garage when the trees lit up with a pale brilliance animated by windblown branches. Headlights coming down the driveway. Two sets, moving fast.
"You still want to argue?" I said to Axel, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the backyard. "Do what I say and keep your mouth shut."
I pulled him headlong across a patch of lawn and into the woods beyond, doing the best I could to ward off lowhanging brambles that scraped my face and tore at my forearms. Little involuntary sounds crept from Axel's lips as we entangled and disentangled with grasping bushes and spidery vines. When I saw the movement of the light above slow, I took his shoulder and pulled him to the ground, using my own weight to power our descent. We both woofed out air on impact. I put my arm around his shoulders and shushed in his ear. He nodded his head.
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I had a decent view of the back of the house from where we lay, though the headlights backlit the scene, turning everything into black cutouts. I heard car doors slam and voices calling to each other. Human shapes came into view, turning the corner of the garage, large shapes, moving quickly, crouched, holding handguns with both hands. Bright lights sprang out of nowhere, filling the backyard and revealing Hammon's mercenaries still in their sport coats and casual slacks, scanning the house with their own powerful flashlights, guns now held in one hand. Axel started to whimper, and I tightened my grip on the back of his neck until he stopped.
One of the men flung open the basement hatch and yelled something to the others. 't Hooft and the two dopes from Sound Security came running. They studied the hatch for a few moments, then Jock and Pierre went down the hole. A few moments later, the others followed. I yanked at Axel's collar.
"Time to go."
We bounded up and thrashed our way deeper into the woods. At that point, all decorum was lost. My only objective was to get clear of those guys and find a calm place to plan my next move. Which happened five minutes later when we burst out onto the backyard of another stately Fishers Island home, this one with a light over the rear patio.
I forced Axel back to the ground while I assessed the situation. A light didn't mean the folks were home, it just meant they had a light on, likely controlled by a timer. I dug out the map and compass, and my little flashlight, and tried to figure out where we were.
"You don't have a phone with a GPS by any chance," I asked him.
"No, but I know where we are. Almost at the airport," said Axel, a little louder than I wanted.
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"How do you know that?" I whispered, hoping he'd get the hint.
"I walked around here sometimes at night," he whispered back. "It gets boring cooped up inside all day."
"Which way?"
He pointed toward the left of the house in front of us.
"I'd go that way."
I went back to the compass and map and found no reason to challenge the strategy. I said let's go, and took off, Axel right behind me, with no physical provocation.
We slipped by the big house and found the road that I imagined led to the airport. I started down that way and Axel took my arm and pulled.
"It's the other way," he whined, in full voice, which under the circumstances I had to let pass.
"Okay," I said. "Lead on."
We switched positions and I followed him over the hilly little street to a path that led to a wide, flat and open area that I correctly identified this time as the airport. The little shack and windsock nailed it.
I sat on the ground and Axel followed without prompting.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Two Trees.
"Now would be a good time to check up on the airport," I said when he answered.
"Has cargo arrived?"
"It has. Call it a distressed shipment," I said.
"Maybe better to bring the old truck. Has a lid over the back."
"It would," I said.
"If it starts."
"When you get to the shack, flash your lights three times. Then look to the south, southwest. You'll see a flashlight. Head that way. Keep your lights off on the way over if you can."
"Keeping them on is more the problem."
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Now all I had to do was wait, something I was ill-suited to do. Though not as bad as Axel. Almost immediately he started to twitch and wriggle while humming a discordant little melody. He clutched his backpack to his chest as if expecting someone to come along and snatch it away. All I could think about was lighting a cigarette and pouring a finger of Absolut, so who was the sorrier case?
"Why'd you run, Axel?" I whispered.
"We discussed that already. None of your business."
"Keep your voice down."
"You're the one who's talking."
"I'm whispering. You don't know how to whisper?"
"I know how to whisper," he said, demonstrating poorly.
"What made you pick that house? You can tell me that."
"All the phony security signs. Who'd be fooled by that?"
"Not Two Trees," I said.
"The airport guy? What's he got to do with it?"
"He's coming to get us."
"Oh, the wisecrack about distressed shipment," he said. "You'd be distressed, too."
"I would. It took some guts to do what you did."
"Not really. I didn't have a choice. How'd you find me?" he asked.
"The Hillman's IP address. A wireless card would have been smarter."
"I don't have a wireless card. You were on N-Spock? I started working the help desk when I was eight years old. After school. We might have overlapped."
"If so, not by much."
"Anika gave you my emails?" he asked.
"Just the back end. Not the messages."
"I don't know why she did that."
"She was worried about you," I said.
"That's not what I mean."
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I was going to ask him what he did mean, but I caught sight of headlights coming down the long driveway toward the airport shack. I told Axel to hug the ground, and I did so myself. A pickup truck with rounded fenders and roof rolled up to the shack and the headlights went out. Then they flashed three times. I rolled over on my back, held up my flashlight, switched it on and waved it at the truck for a few moments. Then I rolled back and saw the antique pickup lumber over the grass toward our position. When he was twenty feet away I stood up and flashed my light again. He turned toward us and stopped.
"You'll have to move so
me crap out of the way, but there's plenty of room back there for both of you," said Two Trees when I reached the driver's side window of the mid-fifties Chevy pickup. I could smell the moldy upholstery, causing an eruption of lost memories of my father's 1957 Belvedere.
