Temples, Tempests & Blood

by Andrew Allan

  Cool it, Walt.

  He was in a better position to vet my results than anyone.

  Stokely said, “I’ll judge it when I see it. If I see it. And, this chaos has to stop.”

  “I’m just trying to survive.”

  “You can survive in jail ’til we sort this out.”

  “Jail gives me a zero chance of survival.” He knew it. “What did you find out, anything?”

  He groaned. “We got a break on the plane numbers. But, it’s not conclusive.”

  “Tell me.”

  “NZ4JL is one of the few FAA tail numbers that can also match the numbers of amateur radio licenses.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a quirk. Ham radio. They have different number classes tied to different rankings and size of broadcast. It’s a whole world in there.”

  “Is that the radio they use on the plane?”

  “No, it means the numbers on the tail are also amateur radio license numbers. They match.”

  “Are they the same person? Same entity?”

  “Same shell corp,” he said.

  “So, we’re still stuck.”

  “Not quite.” He went silent.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “I’m here. Just waiting for a little more privacy.”

  Another moment passed.

  “Okay. That number was last associated with someone or some entity at Naval Air Station Lee Field.”

  We had a lead.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Just south of Green Cove Springs.”

  “Near St. Augustine.”

  “Correct. We can research who was based there and see if they owned the license, try to connect that to the Kith.”

  “You said ‘was’. Could they still be based there?”

  “No. The base was shuttered in the Sixties.”

  “The Sixties?”

  If Razook had been stationed there with that radio license, how old did that make him? Mid-seventies?

  “Razook doesn’t appear old enough.”

  “It’s our only solid lead.”

  I got the jab. “My lead will pan out.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Are you able to check into the license and the base personnel?”

  “Not by myself,” he said. “But, I have someone I can trust.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am one hundred percent sure my wife is not Kith.”

  “Wives can be crafty.”

  “Yes, they can.”

  That helped me relax. “Let me know what you find out. I’m going to work on getting you those blueprints.”

  “Get more info,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “And…be careful,” he said.

  “Are you starting to care about me?”

  “No. But, a hurricane is about to pound Florida. It’s a habit.”

  “That’s what the Kith are counting on.”

  Click.

  35

  MY MOMENTS WERE mixed. One minute I was enjoying scenic vistas on the drive to Palatka. The next minute I was trying to distract myself from letting the trauma of my near-death experiences creep into my thoughts. Tall clouds and grey storm were blocking the sun. Florida is more beautiful when it’s raining.

  I had a decision to make—stop in Palatka to see Ilsa or drive further up Highway 17 to Green Cove Springs where I could check out the Air Force Base?

  I still hadn’t made a decision by the time I reached Palatka. The weatherman wasn’t joking. The storm was coming and part of it had already reached Palatka. Rain pocked the river and dampened my shirt as I looked out at the island where I suspected Ilsa was staying.

  She was right there.

  But, here was the thing: As much as I wanted to see Ilsa, as bad as I needed to get that blueprint to Stokely, I had to see what was happening at the Air Force Base. What if I missed something up at the base because I spent time with Ilsa instead?

  Curiosity, desperation, guilt, fear. Whatever it was propelled me further north to Green Cove Springs.

  You’d barely know it was an Air Force base. Or, had been. Overgrown vines tangled in, around, and over a chain-link fence that ran the entire block. Pine trees stood tall on the other side, making it look more like a secret park than a public one. There were no signs, no indication, of what had once been here, the men, the machines, the meaning. It was just gone. Disappeared beyond history’s amnesia.

  I followed along the fence. Cars passed. A peek through chain-link showed grass and forest. The land had not been tended.

  The only way I’d discover more was if I hopped the fence. Easy enough with these vines. I landed on soft grass deep enough to wrap around my ankles. Resting moths flew up and away. A pair of squirrels hustled up a tree to a branch. They stopped and looked down at me like why hadn’t they been told I’d be here today. They scurried off.

  My guard was usually up when I trespassed. But here, I just felt alone. The land felt empty of human presence. I felt safer. No one knew where I was. No one looking for me would find me here. Was that good or bad?

  I walked. And, walked. And, walked some more. The humidity was thick. What was the connection between this place, the call numbers, and the Kith? How did this play into son of a bitch Razook’s history?

  I knew nothing about Razook’s mama to call her that. But, she sure didn’t teach him well. Not well enough to treat people with kindness and respect.

  I marched further into the property. And, it paid off.

  Beyond the last rows of trees stood a Quonset hut. The old base hadn’t been completely destroyed. And, there were several more structures beyond that, all connected by concrete. A closer look from the edge of the woods revealed the area to be wide-open, more buildings than trees. It looked like the set of Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.. There was still a military base here.

  Did the government have anything to do with this? Here I was, a wanted man, trespassing on Uncle Sam’s turf. Just when I thought my troubles couldn’t get any deeper.

  There were smaller buildings stretched along strips of runway. Beyond them stood a series of aircraft hangers.

  The base wasn’t abandoned.

  A man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit was smoking outside a hanger.

  Survival instinct pulled me behind a pine tree. My finger pressed into sap, which wouldn’t wipe off on my pant leg. I watched.

  First objective: I needed to know if this was Kith property.

  Benefit: I could pass that along to Stokely, and he could take it from there.

  But, how far would he get?

  I dashed from woods to hut to building. I didn’t see anyone. No one saw me. A peek through a window revealed the building to be barracks. It was locked. I hurried over to the next building. First a peak, then…it was open.

  The barrack was empty. And, it was a far cry from the ones I’d seen in movies. Rather than long rows of beds and sparse decor, this one was fully furnished and sectioned off into different living areas—TV area, dining room, kitchen, reading nook, and beds beyond that. It was like a swank condo. Maybe the military had nothing to do with this place. Not necessarily a relief.

  I moved into the room committing details to memory—magazines, dishes in the sink, kicked off shoes lounging by a small closet. Sun shined in, highlighting dust on the sill, ring stains from phantom beverages. The bathroom was tidy. Two toothbrushes. That corresponded with the two twin beds I had seen. Nothing unusual.

  At the back of the barrack was another door with a curtained window. I peeked between glass and sheer. The man I had seen was no longer there. But, it was too bright outside to make out details in the dark of the hangar interior. What if Razook’s plane was in there?

  The notion was electrifying. That would tie him to this place. It would give Stokely a location to look for him. But, I wanted more. What if I just killed him now?

  I considered my appearance. Not a good look with all the fighting and running and such. But, there were aviation
style jumpsuits in the closets. First one was too small for a guy my height. Second one fit fine. A clipboard and papers hanging from a nail on the wall completed the look. Anything interesting? Just mechanic reports.

  I took another quick survey of the area. No one about. Time to move. I stepped out of the barrack and walked with purpose towards the hangar. I occasionally checked the clipboard like I was mulling over a pressing issue. Actually, I was—my survival.

  I found quite the surprise inside the hangar. It wasn’t big and empty and hollow. There was no plane. It wasn’t littered with grease monkeys and rolling tool chests and fuel barrels.

  It was filled with a house. No. A mansion.

  36

  SOMEONE WANT TO explain to me what a mansion was doing inside an airplane hangar?

  Only one answer for that. Hiding. How else could you hide a house? Okay then, whose house was it? Someone who could afford it. I had a hunch.

  I drifted into a dark corner of the hangar and took in the scene: It was something else. It had a driveway, a lawn, landscaping a man was watering. It was just like a real house, real mansion. But the hangar covered everything. Lights shone from skylights giving the illusion of sunlight. It was like a set on a Hollywood movie soundstage. Back when they actually used to build the buildings instead of putting them in with CGI. It couldn’t have appeared more surreal. Very Logan’s Run. No. A Boy and His Dog. That underground Astroturf city where the maidens wore demure dresses and everything had small town charm. Artificial quaintness masking a dark secret.

  A car in the driveway. Black, waxed, elite. Was the owner home? How was I going to get inside? Had I hit the jackpot? Was this where Razook lived? That was good and bad. Good I’d found it. Bad I didn’t have an army with me. Or, DG and his gang. They could do some damage here.

  What did this all mean?

  It meant this was where Razook must live. And, it was as eccentric as the other parts of his life. The murderous parts? I had to presume his indulgent tendencies ran wild here.

  There was much to take in. I wanted to explore the house, see what he was hiding. If my mental map was right, this house backed up to the river. Could he leave and arrive that way? Too many questions.

  Focus.

  Time for action.

  The landscaper hummed some unfamiliar tune as he walked down the drive and across the front of the mansion. He turned the corner and disappeared behind a row of tall, sculpted shrubs. Those would provide perfect cover. And, if I ran into the landscaper I could ask him a few—

  “Hey!”

  It was the smoker from outside—a jowly brute whose five o’clock shadow appeared to arrive at 11am.

  “Help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m here to meet someone,” I said. “About a delivery?” I held up my clipboard.

  “Deliveries are always in the back.” He stepped up, gave me the once over, a cynical look on his face. “And, you’re the first deliveryman we’ve had that wore our uniform.”

  He grabbed my collar and pulled. The jumpsuit twisted awkward around my body as I leaned away. His fist was like a vice.

  “I told you,” I couldn’t shake his grasp. “I’m making a delivery.”

  “Of what?”

  “This,” I stopped leaning away and punched him. He wheezed and staggered back. But, he didn’t let go. I chopped down with the clipboard. That stung his forearm and loosened his grip enough for me to slip free. But, by that point he’d recovered from the first hit. He swung and missed, swung again, got me in the shoulder and the pain sizzled.

  I barreled into him shoulder first and smashed him against the hangar wall. Steel thunder echoed throughout. We slid to the ground, into shadows and dust, both of us red-faced and grunting and searching for an edge.

  He kicked me off. I landed on fake plants. Stiff plastic jabbed my back. I clawed the ground for a handful of mulch, but it was all just a single rubber surface that created the appearance of mulch. Fake, like everything about this place. The Smoker stood, almost charged, but stopped. He reached for a radio mic on his collar, which I hadn’t seen. He spoke into it.

  I tackled him. He oofed! The ground neutralized him. I ripped the mic off his collar, stood up, and ran the same direction as the landscaper.

  Not the brightest idea. My car was the other direction, on the other side of the property. I knew enough now, had seen enough, to know this was Razook’s home. I could send Stokely here. More important that I make it out alive to tell him where to find it.

  I ran amongst shafts of artificial sunlight beaming between sculpted trees. Whatever material was on the ground softened the sound of my footsteps. I stole glances of the mansion as I moved. It wasn’t just a facade. It had sides, interior, everything. It was indeed a real house.

  Something hit me, big and brutal. I ricocheted off, took two uneven steps and spilled into a row of fake shrubs. Plastic leaves raked my skin on the way down.

  No time for pain.

  I scrambled up. The landscaper was out cold on the ground. He had just stepped out of a small shed, which was illuminated by a lone bulb hanging between shelves of gardening supplies.

  Didn’t see anyone moving through the shadows. Had they not followed me?

  The landscaper was kaput for now. There was a walkie-talkie on a shelf in the shed. I grabbed it and hustled off.

  I stopped to catch my breath. A shadowed corner gave me cover with a view of the backside of the mansion. It was just as unbelievable as the front. Concrete steps cascaded to a large pool area that was bright and sunny from light beaming through a retractable roof. This time, the foliage looked real. Beyond the pool area was a large grassy lawn, which rolled out to the river.

  I had a way out. But, I didn’t want to leave just yet.

  Action by the pool—two men in suits, each enjoying a cocktail and a woman. The women appeared Mexican, fully naked, and each had the Kith icon branded into their arms. Proof it was Kith property.

  Stokely’s hunch had been spot on.

  A man descended the rear steps.

  And, I knew him.

  Von, the guy from Razook’s plane.

  37

  I DAMNED THE fact that I didn’t have a phone on me. That meant I didn’t have a camera either. A picture of Von would have been all the proof I needed to give Stokely. Replace my face with his. He was the man everyone wanted.

  Von held file folders. He offered one to each of the men, who shook the ladies off their laps. Pats on the rump. Back to business.

  They liked what they saw in the folders. The men stood and shook hands with Von. Words I couldn’t hear were exchanged.

  I remembered the walkie-talkie. The volume was at 6. I turned it to one. I dialed to different channels. Nothing. Nothing. “…Portside, dock 1 for pickup.” Channel switch, nothing.

  Von led the pair of suits back up the steps and into the house. They left behind a flunky who I saw reach for his lapel mic. I twisted the channel selector fast until I heard words, “…car ready. Guests Tompkins and Gertz are moments away.”

  The voice went quiet. The flunky pulled his hand away from the mic and tidied the drinks left behind by the guests. The naked girls were left behind like a football in the yard when mom yells ‘supper’. The flunky, realizing better, set the glasses he’d had pinched between his fingers back on the table and made a gesture for the girls to clean the mess. They did, hurrying the dirty dishes out of there.

  Hangar, Kith, Von, Tompkins, Gertz—five bits of valuable info. That was enough. Time to split.

  Forget the front entrance. There’d be too many people around with the guests departing. I didn’t know what happened to the guy who’d spotted me or the landscaper. Best bet was out the back. I had a clear shot. And, I took it.

  Big mistake.

  There were people everywhere. Workers were bringing supplies up from a mid-sized ship that had docked. Too much action to get away clean.

  “There you are,” said a familiar voice.

  Before I could t
urn around, arms and hands restrained me. The Smoker walked into view. And, with him was Von. “You’ve certainly caused us plenty of trouble, Mr. Asher.”

  38

  WELL, I GOT my wish.

  Two punches to the gut later, I was inside Razook’s mansion. It was proof positive money couldn’t buy taste. To the point, I would actually approve of the Kith murdering the interior designer who thought wall-sized murals of sweaty orgies went with purple carpet and a modern scrollwork stair rail.

  “You’ll have to pardon the look of the place,” said Von. “They’ve already started packing it for the move.”

  “Takes time to properly ship self-indulgence,” I said.

  Von gave a disapproving look, but said nothing.

  “Razook upstairs boxing the linens?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Is he too good to fold fitted bedsheets?”

  The Smoker squeezed my arm.

  “Make all the jokes you like,” said Von. “It’s what we believe in.”

  “Homemaker humor?”

  “You have to be funny for it to qualify as comedy. I meant no limitations.”

  “That’s right. Maximum freedom.”

  “Maximum freedom and you still have to wear a uniform?”

  He snarled.

  Von said, “Wayne hasn’t leveled up. But, he’s well on his way.”

  “Sounds like another cult I know.”

  “Hardly,” he said again. Probably didn’t have many words to work with.

  They led me down to a basement.

  “When do I get to see the maestro?” I said.

  “You don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He has more important duties.”

  “He can’t be bothered to see an old friend?”

  “He’s not here and won’t be.”

  “Is he cleaning up Wint Wilson’s mess?”

  Von gave me a look. “So, that was you.”

  “You should see what else I can do. I’ve seen what you do, Von.”

  “I do what needs to be done.”

  We were in a foyer next to a table adorned with flowers below a chandelier that emitted warm light—more obnoxious decor.