by Vince Milam
I straightened up, made a slow right turn, keeping my holstered pistol within his eyesight. The friar’s fringe of hair was plastered against his large skull, the pistol pointed toward my chest aimed with a steady paw. He stepped from behind a large tree trunk, seven paces away. He wore street clothes, soaked, his shoes covered with a mud-and-pine-needle mixture.
“I did once tell you of my abilities with regard to tracking, did I not?”
He smiled.
“Yeah, Hirsch. Yeah, you did.”
“We must move with speed, you and I. Your friend will return soon.”
I’d let my mind wander, dropped focus on the moment. Hirsch’s incursion within the scene was a stark reminder of what happens when you let your guard down. It irritated the hell out of me.
“You’re not taking the toxin.”
He ignored me. I ignored his immediate threat, filled to the brim with enough and no more and shove-it-where-the-sun-don’t-shine. He’d get off a shot or two before I drew and fired. Yeah, I’d get hit, maybe die. There was no maybe about his death.
“I will lock you in the back—the trunk, you people call it—of the smaller vehicle. Your friend can retrieve you when he arrives. I will have departed by then. It is a good plan.”
“No, it’s not. I’m not getting into any car trunks.”
“Then I will be forced to shoot you. I do not wish this, Case Lee. But my people, my country, require Dr. Amsler’s toxin. It is for our survival.”
The side of his head exploded. The crack of Marcus’s rifle followed a split second later. I remained stock-still, absorbed in the presence of another senseless death. No aspersions cast toward Marcus—a blood brother doing what was expected. Covering my back. But another death sucked into Amsler’s conspiracy. A man gone and soon enough forgotten. Except by me. My anger toward Amsler ratcheted up another notch.
I retrieved my firearm and waited for Marcus. He trudged from the thick vegetation on the opposite hillside, crossed the gravel access road, and climbed my way.
“Thanks,” I said. “Our conversation wasn’t going well. Guess who he was?”
“I know who he was. A man pointing a weapon at you in a hot-fire zone.”
End of story, as far as Marcus was concerned. Fair enough, and no further discussion ensued regarding the Mossad agent except for body disposal.
“Let’s leave this one,” I said, indicating Hirsch. “It’ll give the authorities a goose chase. They might pin him as the instigator.”
Marcus spit and pulled a cigar. “I am not enthused about how your mind works these days, son.” His lighter clacked open. “It’s cleaner to stack and burn them.”
“Don’t want clean. He’s a spook. Hell, they’re all spooks except Amsler and Archer. Leaving him here keeps it muddy. Helps cover our trail.”
A brief eye lock followed, but he didn’t press the issue. Marcus left my world to me.
“Why’d you backtrack?” I asked, wondering what prompted him to abandon our vehicle’s retrieval.
“A set of car tracks. They stopped at our pullout. Footprints indicated someone had walked to our vehicle and returned. Then they drove on. I didn’t like it.”
“Well, thanks again. This guy must have followed the Iranians here a day or so ago. He had a talent for tracking MOIS agents. Too bad it rained. Tire tracks did him in.”
“Yeah. Too bad,” Marcus said, turning. “I’ll get the vehicle. Try and avoid more vertical spooks.”
He strode away, headed back toward our parked SUV. I made for the garage, opened the back door, and loaded a wheelbarrow with cordwood. Piled it across bodies. Several trips created a decent stack of conflagration kindling. I was still at it when Marcus drove up.
“I’ll pop the propane tank valve out back,” he said, searching for a wrench. “Let it empty. We don’t want an explosion ruining our campfire.”
I continued hauling wood. When he finished his chore we swapped duties.
“You go wrap the prize to your satisfaction,” he said. “I’ll finish here.”
I snagged a pair of thick rubber lab gloves from a makeshift counter and retrieved plastic sheeting and two rolls of duct tape. Removed the glass container from Amsler’s lap with great care while giving little consideration toward the previous owner. She’d tried and failed and paid the price. Instigated pain and death across a wide swath of her trail. I damn near felt like shooting her again.
Once finished, the container wrapped in plastic and duct tape appeared as a large dull silver egg. It would do. I nestled it in our SUV’s backseat. We finished the firewood duty. Placed two entire cords over the bodies and across the floor, with another pile underneath the lab equipment. We grabbed two five-gallon gas cans, full, and set them near Amsler and Archer’s vehicle. Marcus wired open the gas nozzle from the elevated gas tank. Fuel flowed, and small streams made their way against the back of the cabin and garage.
He and I shared a nod before he set off the cabin with a gas-fueled roar. I doused the inside and outside of Amsler’s vehicle with gasoline. Lit it and climbed into our SUV. Marcus slid in, and we both viewed our handiwork. The cabin and garage would burn to the ground, no doubt. Amsler’s vehicle would become a mess of melted plastic and upholstery and bodies. Smoke billowed against the low overcast sky. The drizzle—now light—prompted the use of windshield wipers as we observed the brutal aftermath. We didn’t linger long.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Marcus said.
“Roger on that.”
I turned toward the gravel exit road and goosed it. Left the entire mess in the rearview mirror. We didn’t speak another word for ten minutes. I drove east toward towering mountain peaks. The gravel forest road allowed decent speed, and we ate miles. Marcus rolled his window down and lit a cigar.
“You are aware,” he said, breaking the silence. “We did the right thing.”
Cool damp air rushed within the vehicle, and the windshield wipers slapped a slow and steady beat.
“Yeah. Yeah, and I’m glad it’s over, and I appreciate your help more than you’ll know. It’s the anger I can’t drop. One person, one wingnut kicked this off and brought about the final outcome. I’m mightily pissed at her, and maybe pissed at the human condition that creates these things. These plots, these insane conspiracies.”
“If your head is grappling with the human condition, chase your tail while you’re at it. Now pull over at the next trailhead. Let’s check the map.”
We did. The small parking area was empty. Not a good day for hikes, given the weather. The oversized plastic-covered topo map displayed trails throughout the thirteen hundred square miles of national forest. Marcus pinpointed another trailhead farther up the road.
“A single loop trail,” he said. “It doesn’t intersect with any others. We’ll hike in a couple of miles and turn north. Bushwhack for several miles. About as isolated a spot as we’ll find.”
An hour later we parked and took off, the silver egg strapped to the back of my battle vest. Marcus carried the shovel and small hatchet we’d purchased. I toted the heavy crowbar. The trail angled uphill, toward the no-longer-distant mountains. It felt good to stretch out, sweat, scramble. Cleared the head, reset attitude. The burning anger dissipated, and acceptance rolled in. A sense of victory, accomplishment, and doing-the-right-thing took root.
Angling off-trail provided a true sense of isolation. Hikers wouldn’t venture in our direction. A deer hunter, maybe. But this was a vast area, and the odds of another human stumbling across our burial spot was beyond remote. Besides, we were adept at covering our tracks and our digging spot. Two hours later we came to the edge of a high mountain scree field.
“At the scree’s edge,” Marcus said. “We can use rocks as a final cover.”
“Too open. Let’s dig here, under cover of these pines.”
“What do you mean too open?”
“Big birds overhead. The sky might clear. Can’t chance it.”
Marcus, sweat and rain running dow
n his face, shook his head.
“Just out of curiosity,” he asked. “Do you drop the cloak and dagger crap when not on a job?”
I unloaded the prize and stripped off my vest and shirt.
“It requires a constant state of alertness,” I said. “So I wouldn’t expect your understanding. Those days are long gone for you.”
“Shut up and dig. It will do my heart good to observe you putting in honest labor.”
“Happy to. Please don’t help. Otherwise I’ll have to perform CPR and haul your butt back down the mountain.”
“A frail attempt at covering the true nature of our situation. My skills are best applied in a supervisory capacity. Dig away, grunt.”
I did. I kicked the pine needles and forest duff aside for reuse. Started with a four-foot diameter hole. I used the crowbar when I encountered large rocks, the hatchet for roots. The strenuous exercise provided head-clearing relief and closure. I hit a clay layer and shoveled it aside for earth-sealing the container.
Six feet deep. Clay dropped and stomped into the bottom. The wrapped container next, and it too surrounded with clay. Then dirt, dirt and rocks, and a final foot pounding. The pine needles and duff reapplied. Marcus helped with the surface cleanup. Done and done.
“Glass doesn’t decompose,” I said as my normal breathing pattern returned. “Good for a million years. At least.”
“This is high country,” Marcus said, sniffing the air. “It will be snow-covered in a few weeks. Come spring, after snowmelt, there won’t be a blade of grass out of place.”
“True enough.”
“Which leaves you and me as the sole proprietors of this burial location. And leaving you and the other Swiss scientist as the keepers of the source material location. It’s worth noting that the common denominator is you.”
“An international man of mystique.”
“You mean mystery.”
“Not if you ask Bo.”
“I do not even want to know. Suffice it to say you’re a man who relishes the placement of his butt in a sling. I swear, Case. I swear.”
The cool mist and light rain settled on my bare torso as a distant crow cawed across wilderness. My breath was visible, and the sweat running down my torso turned cold. Over and done and move on. I quit leaning on the shovel and patted his side.
“Me too, Marcus. Me too.”
Epilogue
Tinker Juarez stood at the prow of the Ace of Spades, nose to the wind, our own private figurehead. We cruised off Port Royal, second day of the trip, taking our time. Salt marsh islands, small towns, a light fall weather chop across the larger bay crossings where I’d let CC steer. Fine and good and fulfilling time spent, staying in the moment.
“If we are about to crash, will you help?” CC asked for the third time that hour.
“Of course, my love. I’m standing right here.”
“What if we hit a whale?”
“We say, ‘Excuse me.’ Whales expect you to be polite.”
She threw back her head and laughed. Wind through the open wheelhouse windows ruffled her hair.
“Excuse me, whale!” she yelled.
“Excuuuuuse me, whale!” I yelled back.
We both roared, CC slung an arm around my side, and we shared pilot duties—each with a hand on the wheel. Tinker glanced back, gave a tail wag or three, and reassumed his personal water route inspection.
A text message from Kim Rochat arrived after I’d returned to the Ace in New Bern and headed south toward Charleston.
How are you?
I am well. And you?
I am also well.
We left it at that, hanging, incomplete, filled with faltering poignancy. There was no great love or passion between us, but I missed her. Plain and simple, missed her. She made a great partner, and once personal layers had been peeled away she’d displayed a depth I hadn’t explored. Lost opportunity, mild yearning, pleasant evening ruminations of “What if?” I disliked leaving it in such a manner—a suspended state I was all too familiar with.
The Ace slid into small burgs along the Ditch or hamlets perched on the banks of small rivers within South Carolina’s Lowcountry region. We’d take walks, let Tinker do his business, eat burgers and fries. Light jackets the order of the day as fall announced its southern presence. Near a small village near Hilton Head, I asked if CC would enjoy a milkshake.
“Yes! Strawberry, please!”
“Maybe a dirt-flavored milkshake for me.”
CC frowned. Jokes were an iffy proposition with her, and this one created consternation.
“I don’t think I’d like that, Case. Not dirt.”
“No dirt. My mistake. May I have a strawberry milkshake like you?”
“Of course!” A few seconds later she added, “Tinker Juarez likes vanilla.”
“Then a strawberry milkshake for CC, a strawberry milkshake for Case, and a vanilla milkshake for Tinker.”
“Tinker Juarez.”
“A vanilla milkshake for Tinker Juarez.”
I filed a final message with my client, Global Resolutions. With other engagements they always received a detailed report that outlined the who, what, where, and when’s. Not this time. Too much at stake, too many eyes and ears involved. So I shot off a short and sweet missive with an attached expense report.
Contract complete. Terminal resolution.
Enough said, and they concurred, my invoice paid and expenses reimbursed within four hours. My concern lay with their perception. I’d pushed for more sedate gigs, and this one had “Case Lee, Hitter for Hire” painted across it. I’d follow up in a few weeks with another communiqué and enquire about gumshoe gigs. Messy divorces, embezzlement, white-collar crime. Well below the espionage radar.
I’d cook onboard the Ace in the evenings—fish, hot dogs, tacos. CC’s favorites. After cleanup, CC and Tinker would head belowdecks and crawl into her bunk. I’d pour a Grey Goose and lounge on the throne—an old recliner patched with a roll or two of duct tape and situated under the foredeck tarp. I cogitated, without too much concern, spookville’s alignment and reaction and plans moving forward. The Company’s Marilyn Townsend understood my involvement with the Amsler pursuit at some undetermined level. The Russians more so. Mossad and the Brits and Chinese—who knew? There was one bright and shining element of relief. Given the state of the world, a disappeared Swiss bio-prospector with her alleged killer jungle juice wouldn’t make it far up the clandestine priority list. Fine by me. On the other hand, MOIS would kill me on sight if we bumped in the night. So would Mossad, maybe. Hard to say, and I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Screw ’em.
“I’ve made a decision,” CC said.
She sat sideways in a large South American hammock—courtesy of Bo—strung across the foredeck. Tinker jumped in with her and slept with his head on her lap. Her feet dangled, the breeze blew, and the hammock developed its own rhythm, working with the wind and roll of the Ace.
“What’s your decision?” I asked.
“Either five or six or seven days.”
I’d left our trip itinerary open and ensured Mom we’d be back before she missed too much school. Mom called each evening and checked on CC. Not to ensure she was well and cared for, but to ascertain if she felt any pangs of homesickness. Greatest mom in the world.
“I think that’s a good decision. We’ll play it by ear.”
“No, Case. Not ears. Here on your boat. Here on the Ace of Spades.”
“Of course, my love. Sorry. Yes, it’s a good decision. Five or six or seven days.”
I’d scheduled a bird hunt and fly-fishing trip in Montana. Marcus and I shook on it at the private air terminal in Billings. We’d departed from LA via private charter.
“Why LA?” he’d asked. “What’s wrong with San Diego?”
“Tracks, trails, footprints.”
“If you lived with me and had a normal job, you could drop all the I Spy junk.”
“Allergic to cows.”
“Allergic to
normal.”
We both drank too much on the victory flight and reminisced about Delta days. Laughter, painful memories, and a shared acute yearning for a world with well-framed missions and black-and-white outcomes. The tiny world of Delta Force, the inhabitants relating on a plane unavailable—and unattainable—for most everyone else on the planet.
Languid days, traveling at a sedate twelve knots. We fished, watched birds and marine life pass, and took walks on salt grass islands. Salt marsh cut-throughs the preferred waterways as the Ace drew but three feet of water. Few other vessels, isolation, precious time spent with CC.
I rented a golf cart on Daufuskie Island—standard transport for the two-by-five-mile time capsule. No bridges joined the island to the mainland, which ensured the clock moved at an older pace. CC, Tinker, and I cruised sandy dirt roads while CC waved at each passerby. Without exception, they waved back. Isolated beaches, ancient moss-draped oak trees, bright smiles. We ate lunch outside at a popular eatery. Lowcountry fare—fried shrimp and grits, deviled crab, collard greens. CC’s eyes were bright and absorbing, pointing out people and other dogs and fall flowers. Evident miracles, too often unnoticed.
“This is so good. So very good.”
“The shrimp?”
Incredulous eyes and arms widened.
“Everything, Case. Everything!”
I sat in the moment, swaddled with love. Throughout our trip, I captured those jewels of time and place, precious, and locked them away.
Bo called one morning as the Ace’s belowdeck diesel engine rumbled assurance with its blue-collar rhythm.
“I sense a calm within the universal fabric. A tranquility sought and fulfilled. A goober tranquility as opposed to the higher-order repose of yours truly.”
“Well, we lower-order creatures have to take what we can.”
Always a joy, a Christmas-light flare-up within my soul once we made contact. When it was revealed CC traveled with me, he insisted I pass her the phone. The subsequent conversation included CC asking Tinker questions for the benefit of Bo and CC giggling nonstop at Bo’s comments and questions. It went on for fifteen minutes until CC, eyes filled with tears of laughter, handed me back the phone.
