The cop in Christie picked up on it. “Do you have something you’re not sure you want to share with me, Bill?”
The older man said nothing for several moments, clearly debating internally. At last, he said, “Understand what life was like for these men. As young children, they were vastly superior to their playmates, but didn’t really grasp it. It frightened the other kids, and many adults, too. As a result, these men were treated cruelly, like freaks; like Frankenstein’s monster. In time they became guarded. They could display a certain level of athleticism, but nowhere near the maximum. They became very frustrated and, over time, angry that they were different and had to constantly monitor themselves and their environment so as not to revel those differences. In some ways it warped them.”
“So, how did they think of themselves?”
“They referred to themselves, with some sarcasm, as ‘gifted’.”
“What did they call the rest of us who are not so ‘gifted’?”
Nishioki allowed an amused smile. “’Norms’,” he said. “For normal.”
“Besides their strength, quickness, and intelligence, were there any other distinguishing characteristics about these men?”
“Yes, two things. One was their eyes.”
“What about them?”
“They each had very pale blue eyes. Whelan’s were the color of glacial ice, very cold. Stensen’s were the palest, a whitish blue.”
“Thomas?” Christie said. “Wasn’t he an African American?”
“Yes, but he was one of them, with the same genetic mutations. There is Western European blood in his family tree. Probably from an ancestor’s liaison with a Caucasian. His eyes really were quite a striking feature.”
“Bill, you said there were two characteristics.” Christie said. “Their eye color was one. What was the other?”
“They all had temperaments…short fuses…and were capable of great physical violence. Sometimes that led to collateral damages.”
“So you’re saying it wasn’t a good idea to piss them off.”
“Exactly,” said Nishioki.
“One last thing. You are aware that all of these genetically evolved individuals, the Sleeping Dogs, died in a plane crash almost twenty years ago?”
Nishioki nodded. “I was aware of that. Tragic.”
“What would you say if I told you that one of them, Brendan Whelan, may be alive?”
The impassive expression on the geneticist’s face never changed. He was silent for a moment. “I would say good for him.”
“Did you know him?”
“I knew all of them.”
“How would you describe Whelan?”
Nishioki smiled faintly. “Ruthless.”
“Ruthless? You mean cruel, sadistic?”
“No, not at all. I mean ruthless in the same sense as a businessman who doesn’t tolerate schedule delays, budget overruns, or taking focus off the big picture. You might say he was the six sigma advocate of the black operations business.”
Christie stared at him for a moment. “Six Sigma? The philosophy of zero defects or mistakes. Interesting.”
“Yes.”
“Would you say the world is less safe with him in it?”
Nishioki stood. “For people who misbehave, certainly. But for most of us, I would say it is a safer place.”
Christie rose to his feet also, shook his host’s hand and thanked him for his time. “I assume you’ll be available, at least by phone, if I need to follow up with you on something.”
“Of course.”
27 Maui, Hawaii
Whelan’s flight arrived at the airport in Kahului on the island of Maui a little after eight p.m. Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. He’d slept most of the way on the long flight. Added to the catnap he got on the drive from San Jose to LAX, he felt rested, but not refreshed. Only three days had passed since he’d left Ireland, but it felt like weeks. He missed helping get the boys off to school while preparing and serving breakfast to their B and B clientele. He missed the time spent with his sons and the fellowship with the townspeople in the local pubs.
Most of all he missed Caitlin. Her presence. Her gentle caress. The soft, thick raven black hair. Those cobalt blue eyes that flashed when she was aroused. The scent of her. The perfect fit of her in his arms. The fullness of her lips. The warmth of her body. The way she always seemed to know his thoughts.
He also missed his training regimen. Fate had given him a genetic gift. He knew that some of the Dogs considered it more of a burden than a benefit. But he was conscientious in maintaining his physical prowess. He trained relentlessly. Weights, martial arts, running, swimming, and cycling. Especially cycling. Despite his size— he was considered too big to become a top cyclist—he was good enough that he occasionally trained with the Irish National Cycling Team when they were in Southwestern Ireland. He competed in local road races as an amateur and could easily whip the field. But he didn’t. He would finish in the top twenty, but purposely chose not to stand out. A man with a price on his head is wise not to attract attention.
Levell’s mission had interrupted his regular workout routine. He felt stale. Restless. Uncomfortable. He needed a good hard workout more than anything. Using his Smartphone, he found a twenty-four-hour fitness facility located about two and a half miles from the airport. After picking up his rental car, he stopped at a small tourist shop near the airport and bought shorts and a tee shirt. Now that he was safely out of California, he would be happy to shed his latest disguise. The Bureau would be turning California on its ear trying to find him. With or without the now-discarded Murkowski disguise. But even with all the security cameras at LAX, he wouldn’t have been recognized as David C. Taggard, a passenger on the Alaska Airlines flight to Hawaii.
The fitness facility offered one-day memberships. Whelan signed in as Taggard, the Kansas City attorney. When he registered, a young man with a bad case of acne came out of an enclosed office area to sign him in and collect his workout fee. Afterwards, the man promptly disappeared back into the office. Whelan could hear the sounds of a TV playing. It sounded like the young man was watching a NASCAR race. Paradise lost, he thought.
Whelan warmed up for thirty minutes on a treadmill, gradually adjusting it to the steepest incline. From there he moved to the floor mat for twenty minutes of stretching exercises. He followed that with thirty minutes of core strengthening routines. Finally, he moved on to the free weights. There were only a few people in the facility at that hour, another man lifting weights nearby and two women in very tight, colorful leotards cycling through the Nautilus equipment in a far corner.
He intended to avoid using weights that might draw attention to his unusual strength. But he was used to working out with friends and family in a small gym in Dingle, where his strength was legendary. Loading three hundred and fifty pounds on the bench-press bar, he slid under it and began slowly and easily to crank out twenty full reps.
The man working out nearby hurried over and stood behind him. “Shoulda’ asked for a spot, man,” he said.
“Thanks, I will from now on.” Whelan finished the last repetition and replaced the bar in the rack and sat up.
The man stuck his hand out. “I’m Josh,” he said.
Whelan shook the hand. “Dave,” he said.
“Damn, Dave, you were pushing what…three fifty?”
“Was it that much?” Whelan realized he’d misjudged the amount of weight he should have been using under the circumstances. Just then, one of the women who had been circuit training on the Nautilus equipment walked up to him. The skin tight, bright green leotard left little to the imagination. She was petite with bleached blonde hair and brown eyes. Her hair was younger looking than her eyes or face. She looked like she’d been around the block more times than anyone should.
She smiled seductively at Whelan, but seemed oblivious to Josh. “I haven’t seen you around here before,” she said to Whelan.
“Haven’t been around here before.”
She slowly licked her lips suggestively. “I’m Renée.”
“Dave.”
She continued to appraise him. “Dave, what are you doing after your workout?”
“Getting some rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Getting some rest, huh? How’d you like to come out for a while with me? We could go for a drink, then see what happens after that.”
“Maybe another time.”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. This wasn’t the response she’d expected. Rejection made her angry. “Another time?” She looked at Josh, then back to Whelan. “Oh, I get it. You guys are gay.”
Josh reddened. Throwing up his hands, he said, “Don’t look at me. I’m not gay.” He walked away.
“Not gay. Married,” Whelan said.
“So when has that ever stopped anybody? I cheated like crazy on all my husbands.”
“Moments to be proud of,” Whelan said. “If you’ll excuse me, Renée, I want to finish my workout.”
She glared at him for a few long moments then said, “Your loss.” She spun around and stormed back to the Nautilus area, occasionally flashing angry looks in Whelan’s direction.
An hour of nonstop iron pumping later, Whelan had achieved both an aerobic and a strength workout. It was not long enough to completely satisfy him, but it was better than no workout at all. Just as he was finishing, a man came into the workout area. He was about Whelan’s size, perhaps slightly taller, with a bodybuilder’s physique. Renée squealed and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He spun her around for a moment then placed her on her feet.
Renée reached up and grabbed the tank top he was wearing and pulled his head down to her level. She was saying something to him and pointing at Whelan. The man scowled at Whelan, then straightened up and walked over to where the Irishman was stacking the weights after his last set of the night.
The man stopped in front of Whelan, blocking the way to the locker room. His hands were balled into fists and resting on his hips, “Hey, Pal” he said. “Renée says you tried to come on to her.”
“Why is that your problem?”
“She’s my ol’ lady, Numbnuts.”
Whelan stared at the man for a moment then said, “Get out of my way.”
The man telegraphed his intentions. He suddenly rotated his left hip and shoulder forward and his right hip and shoulder backward. It’s what some fighters call “loading up”; coiling the body before throwing a punch.
Whelan didn’t load up. That had been trained out of him decades earlier. He drove the palm of his right hand straight forward with blinding speed, smashing it into the center of the man’s chest. The air exploded from his lungs with a loud grunt. He flew backwards through the air for ten to twelve feet and landed semiconscious on his back in the middle of the gym. Whelan walked over, grabbed him under the chin and casually dragged him over to Renée and her female friend. “When he comes around,” he said to her, “he’s going to have lung contusions and a couple of broken ribs. He might want to have that looked into.” He turned and walked away.
“You’re an asshole, you know that? A huge fucking asshole,” she shouted at Whelan’s back.
After clearing his gear out of the locker that had been assigned to him, Whelan drove the short distance to the Maui Beach Hotel and checked in using the reservation a member of the Society had made for him. It was too late for most restaurants to be open, so he ate two Kashi GoLean bars he had picked up at LAX, washing them down with a bottle of Fiji water from the vending machine.
He arose at five the next morning and, knowing it was three in the afternoon in Dingle, called Caitlin. She picked up on the third ring. “Dia Dhuit.”
Ireland had been a difficult land to rule effectively before the twentieth century. As a result, during centuries of occupation the English overlords had banned Gaelic. Many in Ireland no longer spoke it, particularly in Northern Ireland and around Dublin. But the southwest part of the country, including the Dingle peninsula, was as far removed from those areas as anywhere on the island. Here the language had gone underground during the long English occupation, and was still spoken by the natives in addition to English. Whelan’s parents had taught it to him as a child. It was a safe language to use in the remote possibility that Levell was mistaken and the cell phone calls were being monitored.
“I knew it was you,” she said after Whelan replied, also in Gaelic.
He shook his head and smiled. “Now, how could you have known it was me?”
“I just did, Bren,” she said. “We have a connection, the two of us, and it can’t be explained. Doesn’t need to be.”
“Are you and the boys all right?”
“We’re fine. We have Paddy”—her brother—“and my Da along with the whole village lookin’ out for the boys and me. God help any fool who troubles us.”
Whelan had to chuckle. She absolutely was right. Her immediate family and the other residents of the Dingle area were really one very large, extended family. While he hated to be away from them, he knew Caitlin, Sean and Declan would be safe in his absence.
“Things going smoothly?”
“The B and B, yes. The boys, not so much,” she said
“Why? What’s happening with the boys?”
“Well, your son, Sean…”
“Oh, it’s my son now, is it?” he said with a chuckle. “What has he done this time?”
“Yesterday, at school, a big bully of a boy two grades older than Sean and more than thirty pounds heavier picked a fight with him, shoved him down. And what do you think Sean did about that?” she said.
“Kicked his butt, I’m sure.”
“Oh, it was a bit more than that. He sent the poor lad to the hospital with some serious fractures and other injuries.”
“That’s my boy,” he said, smiling.
“Yes, he most assuredly is your boy. But it’s the younger one, who’s most like you. No one’s been foolish enough to pick a fight with Declan in two years or more.”
“That’s my boy, too,” he said, basking in fatherly pride.
“It must just be somethin’ in their genes,” she said with a teasing laugh.
He could imagine her here with him now. He could almost smell the sweet scent of her hair, and feel the warmth of her skin. Suddenly he felt homesick. He’d never had a reason to be away from her and the boys for more than a night. He felt a sharp pang of longing deep within his chest as if his heart truly was suffering.
He pushed past it and said, “I hope you’re not being too harsh with the boys.”
“Their Uncle Paddy came over to the house when he heard about the fight and had a talk with them. He tried to sound very stern, but I caught him winkin’ at them when he was finished. Honestly, he’s as bad as you are when comes to settin’ an example of peaceful restraint and turnin’ the other cheek.”
“Is that what you’d have me do, turn the other cheek?”
“No, Bren, you know I enjoy seeing some troublesome fool get the bejesus knocked out of him. Remember who I grew up around.”
“They don’t get any tougher than Tom and Paddy,” he said.
They chatted for several more minutes. At the end of the conversation, she said, “When are you comin’ home, Bren? We miss you terribly.”
“Not soon enough, Cait. Not soon enough.”
28 Hāna, Hawaii
Whelan drove the infamous stretch of road from Kahului to Hāna at a leisurely pace. It twisted and wound along verdant seacoast cliffs. There were six hundred hairpin turns and switchbacks in little more than fifty miles. The road narrowed to one lane at each of the fifty or so bridges. Countless creeks and streams spun and tumbled toward the azure Pacific in a timeless struggle to drain the lush tropical rain forest on Hal
eakala’s eastern flank.
Between the constant curves and switchbacks and the bumper-to-bumper tourists, the drive took Whelan more than three hours. He didn’t mind. He was motoring through an exotic paradise; one of the most beautiful and captivating areas on the planet—flowers, tropical foliage, streams, waterfalls, bamboo thickets. Giant tropical trees sprouting prehistoric-sized leaves. Rare rainbow eucalyptus trees with multicolored bark. He wished he was driving a convertible. More than that, he wished Caitlin was there to share it with her.
About halfway to Hāna he stopped to buy some fresh fruit, fresh made banana bread and a bottle of water at a small stand by the side of the road. He took some extra minutes and followed a trail uphill to a scenic lookout. The majesty of the view was humbling. The flank of Haleakala fell away beneath him, a lush, green, impenetrable rain forest all the way to the beach where powerful Pacific rollers endlessly attacked the island. What, he wondered, had the first Euro-American explorers thought when they discovered these islands? It reminded him of a line in Kenneth Sale’s Christopher Columbus and the Conquest of Paradise, “a prelapsarian Eden of astonishing plenitude". He understood why doctors, lawyers, accountants, business executives and others left well-paying jobs on the mainland to move to Hawaii and become guides, cabbies, or other minions in the tourist trade. Just for the chance to go native in this paradise. Whelan understood what motivated them. The temperature was a balmy eighty-two degrees and the clean air was scented with soft, tropical fragrances. Back in the States, including Florida, people were enduring a bone chilling cold snap.
When he reached the small town of Hāna with its population of little more than a thousand residents, he thought about stopping for lunch at the Travaasa Hāna, the former Hotel Hāna-Maui, a world famous resort and spa in the heart of the village. But he didn’t really want a sit-down dining experience. He drove on through Hāna, past the historic Wananalua Congregational Church built in 1838, the generations-old Hasegawa General Store, and a bank that was open for business only ninety minutes each day. A short distance later he spotted a small roadside food vendor’s stand. It didn’t have a name, just a hand-painted sign that said “Go Native. Eat Here.” He parked on the side of the road.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 13
