by Robin Cook
Quietly stepping out of the kitchen, Yuri moved over to Connie’s door. He pressed his ear against it. He could hear the television clearly. He assumed Connie was still lying on the bed.
Returning to the kitchen, he struggled to open the ice cream container without ripping it. Once he had it open, he debated how to add the toxin. He was afraid to add it in one bolus, thinking Connie might taste it and then spit it out. After considering his options, he took out a bowl and emptied most of the ice cream into it. Then he took out the vial from the dish cabinet. Holding his breath, he sprinkled some of the material onto the ice cream.
“Oh what the hell,” he whispered. He poured the rest into the ice cream. In total, it was no more than a pinch. But if the toxin was as lethal as he expected, it was a huge dose. Probably enough to knock off everybody in Brighton Beach.
Yuri rinsed out the vial in the sink and let the water run. With a fork, he mixed the ice cream as well as he could. Then with a spoon he ladled it back into the pint container. That turned out to be more difficult than he expected, since it seemed that he had more ice cream than he’d started with. It took a bit of force to get it all in. When he was finished he resealed the container as best as he could.
Yuri washed out the bowl. Even so, he vowed never to use it again. In fact after the evening was over he intended to throw it and the fork away.
After washing his hands carefully, Yuri got out a spoon. Then he picked up both the ice cream container and the pepperoni pizza box and headed for Connie’s room.
“It took long enough,” Connie commented when Yuri opened her door.
“Where do you want it?” Yuri asked.
“Over here on the floor,” Connie said without taking her eyes off the TV.
Yuri bent down and put the food on the rug. He placed the spoon on top of the ice cream container and straightened up.
That was when Connie glanced over to see what he’d done.
“Hey, I don’t want the ice cream,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Yuri said with consternation.
“I mean I want you to put it in the goddamn refrigerator,” Connie said. “I’ll eat it after my pizza. I don’t want it to melt.”
“Fine,” Yuri said with some relief. He picked up the ice cream and the spoon and backed to the door. “Give a yell when you want it, okay?”
Connie’s head flopped to the side, and she regarded Yuri beneath knotted brows. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You’ve never been this nice.”
“I told you,” Yuri said. “I feel guilty.”
“I wish you’d feel guilty more often,” Connie said.
Yuri went back out to the kitchen. Mumbling a few choice epithets about Connie, he put the ice cream in the freezer. His pulse was hammering in his temples. He needed a vodka. As he’d suspected, it was going to be a long night.
“Okay, everybody shut the hell up!” Curt yelled out over the unruly group. He’d called a meeting of the People’s Aryan Army, and they’d gathered in the back pool room of the White Pride bar. The owner of the bar was Jeff Connolly, an old acquaintance of Curt’s. Jeff wasn’t an official member of the group, although he was entirely sympathetic to the PAA’s positions: namely anti-government, anti-black, anti-Semitic, anti-Hispanic, anti-immigration, anti-feminist, anti-NAFTA, anti-abortion, and anti-gay. He was more than happy to clear out the pool room whenever the PAA needed to assemble.
On Curt’s insistence the organization of his group was entirely clandestine. There were no membership cards or even membership memorabilia. He urged people never to use the name, although he and Steve did when they communicated to other militias via the Internet. Otherwise, all communication was by word of mouth, person to person. To call the meeting that night, there’d been no phone calls and no written messages. People had to seek each other out. What made it easy was that most members came to the White Pride at some time during each and every night.
Curt had recruited eight skinheads using methods he’d learned from Tim Melcher. He’d isolate a teenager at one of the many local skinhead bars and strike up a conversation. The conversation was more like an interview. Whenever Curt thought the kid was fertile ground for his views, he then started in on ideology. It was easy, because the skinheads were eager for some organization and to have a focus for their violent dispositions. Besides, from personal experience Curt knew their struggles and resentments and could therefore fan their fledgling bigotries and hatreds.
But keeping such a group under a semblance of control was not easy. For one thing, many of those involved were stupid, like Yuri, and lacked a proper sense for security. Offering Brad Cassidy an opportunity to join the group when he’d approached a couple of the troops directly was a case in point. They’d bought his original story. But Curt hadn’t. First of all, Curt was suspicious of anyone who wasn’t from the immediate area. Second, no one was considered for membership without being interviewed by Curt first. When Curt got to talk with him, Brad contradicted himself several times. Then, with a little prodding with a knife and the judicious use of a length of piano wire, the true story came out. He was a government spy.
The other problem was the group’s appetite for violence, a trait Curt wanted to channel. At first he thought that in between legitimate missions just talk about violent acts would satisfy their urges. But it turned out that talking was not enough. Occasionally, Curt had to risk confrontation with the authorities, letting them cruise around to other parts of Brooklyn or even Manhattan to find someone to beat up.
The clothes and the tattoos bothered Curt, too. He tried to get them to tame their style of dress, arguing that they should let their actions speak for themselves. They could be more effective, he argued, if they could blend in. But it was like talking to a wall. There was something about their shaved heads, T-shirts, Nazi regalia, and black boots that appealed to them on a gut level. No amount of persuasion could alter their opinion.
“Come on, you guys,” Steve called out. “You heard Curt. Listen up!”
Kevin Smith and Luke Benn straightened up by the pool table. Thumping the heels of their pool cues on the floor they stood in a ragged form of attention. Stew Manson, who was having an argument with Clark Ebersol and Nat Jenkins, turned to Curt and swayed. He’d been drinking beer since eight and was feeling no pain. Mike Compisano, Matt Sylvester, and Carl Ryerson looked up from their rambunctious card game. Even among this crowd, Carl stood out, with a crudely drawn swastika tattooed in the middle of his forehead.
“We’ve got a mission tonight,” Curt said. “It’s going to require finesse, which I’m not sure any of you understand.”
A titter sounded from a few of the troops.
“We’ve got to go out on the Island,” Curt continued. “Out to the Hamptons, to be exact, and steal a truck.”
“No need to go way the hell out there for a truck,” Stew said. He slurred his words. “There’s plenty of trucks right here in Brooklyn.”
“We’re talking about a special type of truck,” Curt said. “Who’s good at getting into a vehicle quickly and hotwiring it?”
Most of the troops turned to Clark Ebersol. “I guess that’s me,” Clark said. He was a slight fellow with a bumpy scalp that made shaving it a chore. “I’ve been joyriding since I was twelve.” He now worked at a local garage.
“Compisano is good if there’s an electronic alarm,” Kevin said. Kevin was a redhead like Steve, but with his hair shaved it was hard to tell save for his freckled complexion. He was also the youngest of the group at sixteen although he was a big, husky kid. The others ranged up to twenty-two. The oldest was Luke Benn.
“I’m mostly used to house alarms, not car alarms,” Mike Compisano said. In spite of his Italian name, Mike had been a towhead since birth. His blond eyebrows were almost transparent, giving him an expression of perpetual surprise.
“At least you know something about alarms,” Curt said. “That could come in handy. So you and Clark will ride with me and Steve. The rest of you go i
n Nat’s truck.” Of all the troops, Nat was the best off financially. His brother was in the garbage business. He had a king cab pickup like Curt’s with two rows of seats.
“Stew, you stay here,” Curt said.
“The hell I will,” Stew said. “I’m going with the action.”
“That’s an order!” Curt snapped. “You’re tanked. I can tell you’ve had about five beers more than anyone else. I don’t want this mission compromised.”
“Shit, man!” Stew complained.
“No argument!” Curt ordered. “Let’s move out.”
While Stew Manson sulked, the others eagerly hustled out of the pool room. At the bar most bought beers for the road. Outside they tumbled into the respective vehicles.
“Stay behind me at a reasonable distance,” Curt called to Nat before he started his truck. Nat gave him a thumbs-up sign. The next moment Nat’s truck erupted with the throbbing base of the group Brutal Attack. Nat had a special speaker system with a woofer capable of loosening his lug bolts.
They moved in a convoy of two vehicles. Nat followed orders and stayed comfortably behind Curt. Halfway out on Long Island they stopped at a service center so everyone could relieve themselves.
“We’re almost out of beer,” Nat said to Curt as he leaned into a urinal. “Can we make a detour at the next town to stock up?”
“No more beer until the mission is over,” Curt shot back.
The second part of the trip went considerably faster than the first as the traffic dropped off dramatically. The congestion of the city and the surrounding metropolitan area had been replaced by the tranquillity of small towns, farms, and palatial, seasonal estates.
It was well past midnight when they drove into Sagamaunatuck, a thriving summertime town that served as a commercial hub for that section of the island. Slowing deliberately to less than the posted speed limit, Curt advanced down Main Street. Most of the shops had been long since shut for the night. The only activity emanated from two local bars that sat opposite each other across the main drag. Their doors were ajar to the mild mid-October night. Each had a handful of patrons. A bit of competing, low-volume music spilled out into the street.
“A nice quiet town,” Steve commented.
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Curt said.
“Hey, there’s a kosher Jewish delicatessen!” Carl said excitedly from the back seat. He pointed to the dark store. “Look at all that stupid foreign writing on the window.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Curt said. “We’re here for one reason only.”
Curt and Steve had reconnoitered the place a month earlier and knew where they were going. The pest control company was on the next street over running parallel with Main Street.
Curt turned left at the next corner onto Banks Street and then left again onto Hancock. Wouton’s Pest Control was on the right in a one-story cinderblock building. A large sign advertised that their expertise ranged from residential to agricultural and other commercial applications. To the right of the building was a parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence with a gate secured by a padlock. Three vehicles featuring the Wouton logo of a cartoon wasp were nosed in at the side of the building. Two were vans. The other was a pickup with a load in its bed covered by a mounded vinyl tarp.
Curt pulled to the curb. He cut his engine, turned out his lights, and motioned for Nat to come alongside. Windows were lowered.
“How many communicators do you have?” Curt asked. In order to coordinate on missions, Curt had purchased an inexpensive radio system that worked within a radius of several city blocks.
“Two,” Kevin said. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of Nat’s truck.
“Here’s another,” Curt said. He handed over an additional communicator. “Now here’s what I want to do. I want two guys up at the next corner of Hancock and Willow with a radio. I want two guys back behind us at the corner of Hancock and Banks with another radio. Nat, I want you to position yourself so that you can pick up either group if the need arises.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Kevin questioned. “Just stand out there in the dark?”
“You’re going to be point men, you big lunkhead,” Curt snapped. “Lookouts.”
“What are we to look for?” Kevin questioned. “This town’s deader than a doornail.”
“The local fuzz,” Curt said. “Last time Steve and I were out here, they cruised around a lot. Let’s hope they don’t show up, but if they do, you’re to create some kind of diversion: whatever it takes to keep the cops busy while we get the truck out of the enclosure, and on its way.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kevin persisted.
“Just make a fuss,” Curt said with exasperation. “Argue or yell at each other. Once the cops get a load of your appearance, it’ll be like flies to flypaper. If they want to take you to the stationhouse, let them. As usual, tell them nothing. The worst-case scenario is that they might keep you overnight, but that would be it. Trust me.”
“I got it,” Nat called from the driver’s seat.
Kevin started to argue that he had no intention of being in jail overnight, but Nat cuffed him on top of the head and told him to shut up.
“Nat, you give me a call when everybody is in position,” Curt said.
“No problem,” Nat said, and he drove forward.
Nat had advanced no more than fifty feet when a police cruiser rounded the corner ahead and started toward the two trucks.
“Shit!” Curt cried. “Everybody down!”
Curt and the others hunkered down in their seats as the police cruiser’s headlights penetrated the cab.
“This is just what I was afraid of,” Curt whispered. The sudden appearance of the police reminded him of the experience they’d had when they’d stolen the fermenters from the microbrewery in New Jersey. They’d been startled by a security guard who’d walked into their midst while the crew was busy unhooking the plumbing. Curt had not thought about positioning lookouts, so they’d been caught completely unawares.
Unfortunately the security guard happened to be African-American, and Stew Manson, who’d had his usual Olympian quota of beer, went berserk. He shouted “nigger” at the guard, who was unarmed, and smashed him over the head as hard as he could with a heavy-duty plumber’s wrench. The man’s head squashed like an uncooked egg, skyrocketing the risk of the mission. Instead of participating in a robbery, they were all suddenly accessories to a murder. Curt was determined to avoid comparable surprises on this mission.
“What did Nat do?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know,” Curt said. “I didn’t see.”
The police cruiser rolled past. Curt craned his neck to watch the car’s progress in his rearview mirror. Luckily, it didn’t stop. Rather, it turned right on Banks Street. Glancing ahead, Curt saw that Nat had stopped at the intersection and two figures had gotten out. The passenger door closed and the truck disappeared around the corner. The men stepped into the shadows.
Curt let out a breath of air. He’d not been aware he’d been holding his breath.
“Let’s hope that means they won’t be back for a while,” Clark said from the back seat.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Steve said.
“I’m with you,” Curt agreed. “But we’ve got to get the truck.”
“How about coming back tomorrow night?” Steve suggested.
“It would be no different,” Curt said. “And we promised Yuri we’d get it tonight.”
The four men sat in silence for a few minutes as the tension rose. Eventually Mike spoke up: “Anybody got any beer left?”
“No drinking until the mission is over!” Curt snapped. He couldn’t believe how juvenile his troops could be. There were times he thought they had no common sense whatsoever.
Just when Curt was becoming concerned that too much time had elapsed, the communicator in his hand vibrated. He pressed the “listen” button and, through static, heard Nat say that everybody was in plac
e. That meant Kevin and Luke on Willow Street, and Matt and Carl on Banks.
“Ten-four,” Curt said. He pocketed the small radio. “That’s it, everybody, let’s go!”
They piled out of the vehicle. Clark had a Slim Jim and a flashlight. Mike had a couple of small screwdrivers, a pair of wire cutters, and several lengths of insulated electrical wire. Curt reached into the bed of his truck and extracted a pair of heavy bolt cutters that he’d borrowed from the firehouse. He slipped them under his jacket. The steel jaws felt cold through his thin T-shirt.
“Act as if we belong here and we’re just checking things out,” Curt said as they approached the padlocked gate. He knew that if anybody happened to be looking out the windows of the apartments across the street, they’d be seen. Although there were no streetlights, it wasn’t particularly dark. The night was crystal clear with a bright, gibbous moon poking in and out amid scudding clouds.
“Which truck are we taking?” Clark asked.
“I hope the pickup,” Curt said. “Depends on what’s in it.”
Clark’s question took Curt back to his and Steve’s reconnaissance to Sagamaunatuck the previous month. At that time they’d seen the same truck. When they’d checked it out parked on Main Street, there’d been pest control equipment attached in the bed, along with cylinders of compressed air. The driver was a friendly, ruddy-faced bearded man wearing a baseball hat with the Wouton wasp logo emblazoned above the visor. He’d just been into the local diner for lunch and was in an expansive mood.
“Yup, this here equipment is a sprayer,” the man had said in response to Curt’s question. Neither Curt nor Steve knew anything about pest control machinery. “Well, that’s not quite true,” the man corrected himself. “It’s really a duster, not a sprayer. It’s designed for powder, not liquids.”
“Looks impressive,” Curt commented while he winked at Steve. It was exactly what they were looking for, ending a weeklong search.
“You bet,” the man said. He gave the machinery a proud pat. “It’s the best on the market. It’s called a Power Row Crop Duster.”