He put the engine in neutral. “You try it.”
Evelyn slowly pushed the throttle forward and the boat jolted.
“Easy, easy,” Mike said.
She moved it again with a more measured touch. The boat moved smoothly through the water.
“There are no brakes, so try to anticipate when you want to stop, put it in neutral, and let the water resistance do the rest. If you need stop quickly, move the throttle through the neutral position and into reverse. Let’s practice that.”
Evelyn bit her lower lip, her hands shaking as she ran through the drill. They went up and down the creek several times, which also allowed her to practice her turns.
“You’re good. Let’s get Al.”
Evelyn’s hands were still shaking.
“Don’t worry,” Mike said. “You’re doing fine.”
They stopped at the spot where they’d last seen Al. They searched for bubbles, but didn’t see any. Mike’s stomach clinched.
Suddenly, Al bobbed to the surface like a cork. He waved his arms. “I’m loving this.” He tried to climb the swim ladder, but got stuck on the first rung.
“You have to take the fins off first,” Mike said.
“What? I can’t hear you,” he said, still struggling with his footing.
Mike grabbed his hand and gave a yank that landed Al on the deck. He flopped around like a fish. “I said you have to take your fins off first.”
“Oh, yeah. Makes sense,” Al said, sitting in a puddle. Mike observed as his student grunted and groaned, trying to remove his wetsuit. He hopped on one foot, trying to pull a pant leg off, but fell on his butt with a splat. He looked up and Mike purposely turned away.
Mike then watched Evelyn, who was swinging the throttle back and forth with the engine off, practicing her shifting technique. He saw her mouth form the words “forward,” “neutral,” “reverse” as she went through the motions, although they didn’t always jibe with the correct positions.
Mike rubbed his jaw, shook his head, and muttered to himself, “Nope, not worried a bit.
Mike left Evelyn and Al to practice on their own. Al was diving in water only up to his neck, and the most damage Evelyn could do was hit the boat against the creek’s soft, muddy bank. They’d be fine. Besides, he had an errand to run in Easton.
Chapter 44
As Mike walked along the sidewalk amid the quaint antique stores and ice-cream shops, he found what he was looking for. He spent several minutes studying the photos and descriptions of for-sale houses that were Scotch-taped to the window of the real-estate office before going inside and speaking to the woman who greeted him.
She wore a white blouse, red skirt, and a sweater with a dolphin brooch. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail.
“Can I help you?”
“My wife and I are thinking of buying a summer house, but we’re interested in an older place. Something with character that we can restore to its original grandeur.”
“Did you see something in the window that struck you?”
“That one on Thompson Creek looked like it had potential.”
“Ah, yes. That’s a lovely property. Belle Ami. It’s been on the market for a while. The seller is quite eager. It needs work, as you can see from the description.”
“That’s exactly what we’re interested in.”
The woman opened a filing cabinet and retrieved several sheets of paper, along with photographs. “Would you like to take a ride out there now?” She glanced at her watch. “We can be there in about twenty minutes. The place is unoccupied. We can go right in.”
“Actually, it has to make the first cut—my wife,” Mike said, smiling. “Can I take these with me?”
“Of course.” She slipped them in an envelope. “And here’s my card,” she said, clipping it to the outside of the envelope. “My name is Mary Wilson.”
“Thanks, Mary. I was wondering, is there an architect in town who does renovations on houses like this? You know, something like what was done on the Kane estate?”
“Are you familiar with that property?”
“I saw it in a magazine, and it was amazing how the place was transformed,” he lied.
“Um, I must have missed that. But anyway, the architect on that house was J.J. O’Reardon. Everyone and anyone in this area uses him. He and his family have been restoring houses for generations.” She walked him to the front door and pointed. “He’s over there.”
Mike held up the envelope as he walked out. “Thanks. We’ll get back to you.”
The sign read J.J. O’Reardon Architects, Established 1921.
The flight of steps landed him into a hallway and then a huge room with blueprints scattered on wide tables. A lone man sat in front of a drafting table. The soft fluorescent lamp shone on his bald head and black visor. He sported a handlebar moustache. Mike couldn’t believe he wore garters on his shirtsleeves. He looked up when he heard Mike’s entrance. “Can I help you?”
“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Mr. O’Reardon.”
The man placed his pencil on the edge of a T-Square. “I’m Jonathan O’Reardon.” He pointed to an old photo on the wall. That’s my grandfather. He’s the J.J. on the sign.”
Mike extended his hand. “My name is Kelly, Brian Kelly. My wife and I are thinking about buying a house in the area, and we’re interested in renovating it but keeping the original design. It’s on Thompson Creek.”
“I know all the houses around here. Which one is it?”
Mike produced the real-estate packet and the architect leafed through the papers.
“Sure. I know this property. Come over here.” He and Mike walked over to a set of gray metal drawers built into the wall used to hold large maps and building plans. Instead of drawings, O’Reardon pulled out a worn book, its binding torn and cover scuffed, and turned to a page with a grainy black-and-white photo.
“This is it,” O’Reardon said, pointing to the words as he read the caption. “The Belle Ami plantation house, circa 1868.” He pushed up his glasses. “Like many other plantations, the house was burned by free slaves. Hell, I would’ve done the same thing if I’d been in their position. If I recall, my father drew restoration plans, and the owners did a partial job in the 1950s, but the upkeep on the house was too steep, so the owners sold it before finishing. The new owners, sometime in the sixties, were planning to take on the restoration, but … let me think. They suffered ill health, I believe, and moved to Florida. The children haven’t done anything with it.”
He opened another drawer and took out the restoration plans. “We’d have to revisit this, get it up to code, but all of our plans are still here. How serious are you about moving ahead?”
“Very serious,” Mike said. He excused himself and turned around, coughing and wheezing. He clutched his hand to his chest. “Oh, boy. Say, could I trouble you for a cup of water?”
“Of course.” While the architect stepped into the hallway to the water cooler, he noticed that the cup holder was empty. He yelled, “Just be a minute. I have to get some more cups from the supply cabinet.”
Mike took that as his cue. He pulled out a drawer marked “H–K” and there it was—floor plans for the renovated Kane estate. He snapped several pictures with his phone in a few seconds.
“Thanks,” Mike said, as O’Reardon handed Mike his drink. He sipped the water and threw the cup into a trashcan. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Kelly, but we get a lot tire kickers in this town. People say they want to buy distressed property and restore it. I have to be honest and say that it takes a lot of patience, and the costs often get out of budget because you never know what you’ll find when you open up those old walls.” He lowered his face and peered at Mike over his eyeglasses.
“I understand completely. My wife and I will think long and hard before we make a commitment, but if we do, we’ll stick with it. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“T
hat’s good to hear. These old houses have a spirit to them, and it’s a shame when they sit idle like this.” He pointed to the real-estate photo showing the derelict house. “People should live in them.”
“When I make a promise, I always keep it,” Mike said.
As he walked out, he thrust his hand behind an antique lowboy dresser in the hallway and grabbed a tower of paper cups hidden there.
“No sense these going to waste,” he said as he carried them down the stairs.
Chapter 45
“What do you make of this?” Mike said, showing his photos of the Kane estate blueprints. He enlarged the pictures on his phone. “Is that what I think it is?”
Evelyn studied the screen. “I’ve seen it before in the homes of African warlords,” she said. “They would brag to all the UN people about how they’d built secret safe rooms when they’d taken over the old colonial palaces.”
“Why does Kane need one?” Al asked. “He’s got a whole infantry force protecting him.”
Mike checked his watch. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get ready for tonight. I’m thinking around 3:00 A.M., when the moon starts setting.”
They drove silently, then settled into their own rooms. An hour later, just out of the shower, Mike heard a knock on his door. He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed his pistol, and looked through the peephole.
Evelyn stood in the hallway, her eyes darting around.
“Come in,” he said. “Give me a second to put on some clothes.”
Evelyn nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the television tuned to CNN, which offered talking heads discussing the governors’ plans. She turned up the sound so she could hear them argue, going off on tangents while the host attempted to bring them back to the main issue, which was headlined on the bottom of the screen: US IN CRISIS: IS THE UNITED STATES STILL UNITED? She muted the sound when Mike walked in.
He pulled a black T-shirt over his head, smoothed it out, and faced Evelyn.
“Mike, I’m worried about tonight. If Kane is mixed up in this governors’ initiative, then that’s big.”
Mike pursed his lips and nodded.
“If he’s involved in some nefarious way, then we’re going to be in real danger,” she went on. “If we’re caught, he’s not going to call the police and have us arrested for trespassing. He’s going to handle it himself and … these so-called ‘safe rooms’ were often torture or detention rooms. Political enemies go in and don’t come out. I’ve dealt with powerful people like Kane for years, but I’ve always had the protection of the UN. And, still, sometimes that wasn’t enough. These despots think of themselves as above the law.”
“You won’t be alone.” Mike pulled her into a gentle side hug. “Al, for all his weirdness, is on task when the chips are down.” Mike didn’t mention Al’s breakdown after the car-explosion incident. “He may fall apart afterward, but while he’s in the middle of it, you can count on him. I trust him to follow the plan and have our backs.”
“I know, I know.”
“Are you worried about driving the boat?”
“No, no. I got that. It’s just, what happens if you don’t come back? I mean, what happens to …?” She looked up. “Mike, I want to go in with you and Al. We should stay together.”
Mike set his jaw and walked to the closet, where he plucked a shirt from a hanger. “We’ve been over the plan. You drive the boat, let us off, and pick us up when we radio you.”
“And what if—”
“There’s no ‘if.’ We’re going inside, setting the bugs, and leaving. That’s it. We’ll be in and out before anyone knows anything. Kane’s men aren’t on high alert, because no one but us knows about his connection to the governors. Even the FBI hasn’t a clue about it. Don’t worry. It’s all going to work just as we planned.”
Mike held her chin up with his hand and looked into her eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine. When I was at the Bureau, we did these kinds of jobs all the time. Piece of cake.”
She managed a weak smile.
“Let’s get Al and go over our game plan one last time. Then we can get something to eat, take a nap, whatever you want to do so you’ll be rested and ready for tonight. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, closing her eyes and giving a tiny shrug.
Just then, they heard a knock on the door and a voice yelling “Hey, Mike. It’s Al.”
Mike opened the door. “I’ve been looking for Evelyn. She’s not in her room and …” He spied Evelyn sitting on the bed holding a crumpled tissue. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Just talking about tonight,” Mike said. “Let’s go over our plans again.”
Al smirked and planted himself on the edge of the desk. Evelyn took the couch, and Mike stood between them.
“We’ll go in slow, no lights, and take each turn wide so we can see Kane’s men before they see us. They patrol the creek near the property. We’ll be carrying crab pots as a cover in case we get challenged. Lots of locals set traps in the early morning before their day jobs. Any questions?”
Mike glanced at Evelyn, and she shot back a quick grin before they both averted their eyes.
“What’s going on between you two?” Al asked.
Silence.
“Whatever,” Al said. “The guns?”
Mike pulled open a drawer and produced a handgun. He pulled back the action and handed it to Al. “It’s got sixteen rounds and one in the chamber.” He pointed to the grip area. “You know the drill. Here’s the safety.” He flicked it up and down.
Al bounced the firearm in his right hand, hefting it up and down like he was checking the weight.
“Yeah,” he said proudly, “I like the way this feels. Don’t I need a holster or something?”
“Our weapons will be held in a plastic Ziploc bag, along with the bugs, phone, and everything else. I’ll carry the bag inside a specially made dry bag. When we get to shore, we’ll open it and transfer the equipment to our backpacks.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“It is.” Mike raised his eyes. “Our main challenge, besides getting in and out undetected—”
Evelyn winced.
“—is that we’re going to be very wet coming out of the water, and we’ll drip all over the floors. We’ll have to carry beach towels.”
“Seriously?” asked Al.
“I personally know of one Bureau job that went south because the agents didn’t wipe their shoes before they entered an organized-crime hideout to plant bugs. It was raining hard, and they left water tracks that led directly to each device.”
“The bad guys ripped out the bugs?”
“Worse. They figured out we had secreted the listening devices and spent the next two months giving us false leads and bad information.” He squeezed an imaginary space between his thumb and index finger. “We came this close to serving a subpoena on a federal prosecutor based on what we heard.”
“What stopped you?” Evelyn interjected.
“I was double-checking the tapes and realized their speaking voices didn’t sound natural. They seemed to emphasize certain words and phrases like they wanted us to pay particular attention. It was subtle, but I could hear it.”
“What did you do?”
“I brought in a speech therapist and asked him for a gut check. He agreed. I told my superior, and we destroyed all the recordings. Two months wasted, but it could have been far worse. We almost made a monumental and embarrassing mistake, all because somebody didn’t wipe their feet on the welcome mat. Damn rookie mistake.”
Mike huffed. “Six months later, we brought in one of the men on the recording for questioning on a related charge—which, by the way, was later dropped for lack of evidence. I’m interrogating the guy, and my boss enters the room. He was the project manager on the bug job, and the hood says to him, ‘Did you remember to wipe your feet?’ and bursts out laughing. He couldn’t contain himself for a solid five minutes.”
“What happen
ed to the project manager?” Al asked.
“He got a promotion. A fellow named Hearst. Have I mentioned him?”
Chapter 46
Mike and Al put on their wetsuits as Evelyn clicked the walkie-talkie on and off several times to make sure she was certain about the “on” position. Her fingers trembled.
“The green light should be lit,” Mike said from the stern. He pressed the mic button on his unit. “Test, test.”
She gave him a thumbs-up and sat down in the captain’s chair, staring up at the clouds. No stars were out, and the moon was almost gone.
Mike nodded to Al. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Mike checked the dry bag one last time. “Let’s go.”
Evelyn put the boat in gear, and it skimmed slowly through the water. Frogs croaked and insects chattered as the three made their way up the creek. The banks were muddy in some places, grassy in others, and they heard land crabs scuttle and plop into the water as they approached.
“Good speed,” Mike said. “Steady as she goes.”
The water was smooth, no ripples and only a meager current. The boat’s engines were the only manmade sound for miles, except for the occasional growl of heavy trucks far off in the distance.
As the creek narrowed, the curves became sharper and Evelyn had to slow almost to a stop to negotiate one oxbow turn.
“This means we’re getting closer,” Mike whispered. He shined a red light on a chart. “A little further.”
Evelyn was fixated on the water ahead, and Mike could see her hands shaking on the wheel. Al had his eyes closed, and the heel of his left leg was tapping on the deck. Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Stop,” he said, as he tapped Evelyn on the shoulder. “I see something.”
She pulled the throttle into neutral and the boat drifted ahead and to the right side. It kissed the bank and stopped.
“There,” he said, pointing. A searchlight swept in front of them. “It’s from a boat,” Mike whispered. “One of Kane’s. They can’t see us above the cattails. They need to stay within sight of the house. We’re good here.” He signaled for Evelyn to turn off the engines.
USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1) Page 18
