Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

  “Since you’ll be serving as lookout, one Ninja is all we need.”

  I must have been intent on the task at hand because I didn’t read anything into the quick smirk that came to her lips. We left the office and headed west out of town in the Jeep. I asked how her grandfather was doing. She said Daggett seemed to have calmed down and was quietly happy. She suspected it had something to do with his expectation that Moby Dick would soon be in his sights. When she talked with Rosen, he was sugar sweet and never mentioned the encounter with me.

  She was describing the conversation, but broke it off as we passed the metal gate to the Ramsey estate.

  “Keep going for around a half mile,” she said. “There’s a sand road on the right.”

  I slowed the Jeep to a crawl when the odometer had ticked off another half mile. Bushes encroached on both sides of an entrance and almost hid the weathered Private Property sign tacked to a tree trunk. I turned the Jeep off the main road and stopped where a chain had been stretched across the road between two crumbling concrete pillars. Another Private Property sign hung from the chain.

  “This chain is new since the last time I was here. Guess we’ll have to walk.”

  “Not necessary.” I got out of the Jeep and used the loppers from my bag to snap the chain. I got back behind the steering wheel.

  We drove over the chain and followed the road for about a quarter of a mile to a sandy clearing.

  “This is as far as the road goes,” Lisa said.

  We got out of the Jeep. I gave Lisa a halogen flashlight and told her to keep the beam shielded with her hand. She led the way along a path through the woods.

  The rank smell of salt marsh mud became stronger. Soon, we stood on the high, grassy bank overlooking a meandering creek. The distance between one bank and another was only about fifteen feet, but it would have been almost impossible to cross the stream without bogging down in the thick mud. The bridge Lisa had mentioned was mostly rotted away. Twin rows of pilings were left and they looked pretty shaky in the light of the flashlight beam.

  “This isn’t exactly the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge,” I said.

  She pinched her chin. “It has deteriorated a little since the last time I was here.”

  “A little? And when may that have been?”

  “About three years ago.”

  I shook my head. “How do you propose I get across?”

  “Like this.”

  She took the flashlight from my hand. Before I could make a move, she put her foot on the first piling, then stepped to the next. She seemed to float across the ruins of the bridge to the other side.

  “I knew those ballet lessons would come in handy some day,” she said. “You won’t have any problem. The pilings seem pretty stable. Just move slowly and deliberately.”

  I stood there with a dumb look on my face, then slid the satchel off my shoulder. “Head’s up,” I said, and lobbed the heavy bag to the other side where it thumped on the ground at her feet.

  Lisa kept the flashlight pointed at the pilings. I stepped on the first one, which wobbled slightly with my weight, then placed my other foot on the next. No turning back now. I repeated the maneuver, pin-wheeling my arms a couple of times to keep my balance, before I stepped onto the banking next to Lisa who grabbed my hand to steady me.

  I was amazed at the strength in her grip. Lisa seemed full of surprises, especially the next one.

  She said, “Let’s go!”

  Dragging me along like a stubborn child, she strode off onto the darkness.

  CHAPTER 22

  Minutes later, we stood in front of a rusty fence post. Hanging at an angle was a metal sign warning trespassers away, under penalties to be inflicted by the might of the U.S government. Passing hunters of an anti-government inclination had peppered the sign with bullet holes. Rusty strands of barbed wire hung from the post.

  After crossing the creek, we had trekked along a winding sand path through a stretch of scrub forest for a few minutes before encountering the sign. We kept moving, and trudged along the beach that ran around the perimeter. The main house was mostly in darkness, but lights blazed in every level of the rotunda, reminding me of my first impression, when I thought it resembled a lighthouse.

  We stopped after a few minutes and I put my hand on Lisa’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” she said with apprehension in her voice.

  “Nothing. Hold on for a second.”

  I scanned the house through binoculars. Most of the windows were dark, and there was no movement in those where lights glowed. I handed the binoculars to Lisa.

  Pointing toward the ocean, I said, “Tell me what you see.”

  After a second, she said, “Lights of what looks like a large boat. It seems to be anchored.”

  “You’re looking at the Volga. Ramsey’s out on the yacht with Ivan.”

  She lowered the binoculars.

  “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we’re here tonight, to see if we can learn what’s going on.”

  We continued along the sandy bluff to the blunt point of the Ramsey property, then started inland, following a straight line back toward the house. The ground began to rise into the brush-covered hill, shaped like a meatloaf that I had noticed on my first incursion onto Ramsey’s property. We climbed to the top of the hill, which was about twenty feet above the ground.

  “This is a strange little mound,” Lisa said. “I’ve been to the house a number of times and never knew it existed.”

  “Good natural camouflage. You can’t see it from the house. It blends into the landscape.”

  We descended from the top and walked around the hill to where the greenery had been cleared away to reveal a vaulted metal plate around eight-by-eight feet built into one end of the mound. There was a steel door set into the surface of the plate.

  “What is this place?” Lisa said.

  “It’s probably not a Hobbit hut.”

  I brought the flashlight closer. The door was secured with a combination lock. I dug a small black box out of my duffel and placed it below the numbered keys. Magnets held the box in place. I pushed a button and a small screen glowed. I pushed another button and a set of numbers appeared in the digital display. I pressed the corresponding keys on the combination lock. A light on the lock glowed green. I turned a handle and the door opened. It did so silently, indicating that it had been oiled recently.

  When the door swung open, the stale smell of cooked food and cigarette smoke assailed my nostrils. I removed the box, put it back in the bag, and told Lisa to stay close behind me. Behind the door was a corrugated tube about six feet in diameter. A wooden walkway ran along the bottom of the tube and into the hill for around thirty feet to a set of sliding steel doors.

  The doors had been moved aside on their runners. I stood in the doorway and swept the flashlight beam around the arched corrugated walls and ceiling. It was evidently a Quanset hut that had been buried in the hill. I stepped off the walkway, went over to a wall switch and gave it a flick. Light flooded the room from a row of ceiling lamps in the high arched ceiling. There was nothing in the space except for a box-shaped structure, built of wood, at the far end.

  “Not exactly the Nantucket Hilton, is it?” I said.

  Lisa glanced around the room. “I’ve been in the JFK bunker at Tom Nevers. It looked a lot like this. I don’t understand. Why would there be another fall-out shelter like that on the island?”

  “Got me. Let’s take a look.”

  We walked to the wooden structure, which was about the size of a two-car garage. An entryway and a couple of windows had been cut into the side. I pointed the light inside and saw that the box held twelve over-and-under bunks, a refrigerator, and a Primus camp stove. Shelves held breakfast cereals and cans of f
ood. There was a portable electric heater, and a couple of folding chairs. There was a closet-sized bathroom and shower. Only one of the bunks had a mattress, and it was made up with blankets and a pillow.

  A swivel chair was drawn up to a computer that sat on a folding metal table. Next to the computer were stacks of books. I picked up one volume. The title was: “Division of Labor in the Common Honey Bee and other Social Insects.” I thought back to the photos of bees and other creatures that I had seen in the MAC lab. Another book had to do with “Autonomous Self-Organizations.” It was mostly equations and technical text. More interesting was the author’s name: “Sean Malloy.”

  “I can’t believe someone’s been living in this awful place,” Lisa said. She had come up behind me and was talking in a hushed tone.

  I put the book down. “From the looks of it, that someone has been forced to work.”

  “How do you know that? Oh, of course. Why would anyone live in here if they didn’t have to be here?”

  I checked the refrigerator and saw that it contained a few bottles of beer and some prescription containers. The prisoner was being allowed some creature comforts.

  “We’ve seen all there is to see,” I said. “We don’t want to be around when the landlords return.”

  Lisa crossed her arms and shivered. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  We hurried back to the tube and scuttled through it like a couple of crabs escaping a trap. The fresh sea air was as sweet as perfume after the claustrophobic underground interior. As I locked the door, I pictured JFK living in a hole in the ground while the world was going up in radioactive fire. I gave thanks that the human race is not always as stupid as it could be. I turned away from the bunker entrance, and that’s when I saw that we had company.

  Two Dobermans as big as ponies stared at us with their mouths hanging open, showing off their sharp teeth.

  My thoughts jumped back to the shadows I had seen the night I stole Ramsey’s Bentley. I moved protectively closer to Lisa, provoking a scary show of doggy gums and a growled warning. The dogs coiled their rear legs under their bodies, waiting for an excuse to spring. I tightened the grip on my flashlight, realizing as I did so, that it would be practically useless if they attacked. Lisa had been silent. I thought she was scared stiff. That’s when she surprised me when she crooned:

  “Good boy, Brutus! Good boy, Cassius!”

  The dogs stopped growling and wagged their tails like a couple of puppies.

  Keeping my eye on the Dobermans and my voice low, I said, “You’ve met these guys before, I presume?”

  “Michael introduced us the first time I visited his house. They’re really a couple of big babies.”

  Each one of the babies must have weighed a hundred-and-fifty pounds.

  “Could you tell the little tykes that we’d like to be on our way?”

  She said, “Sit, Brutus. Sit, Cassius.” When they obeyed immediately, she went over and patted their heads as a reward. They began to lick her face. Still speaking in her motherly voice, she said, “That’s my good boys.” Then in the same tone, she said to me, “Start moving away, Soc. I’ll keep them preoccupied. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  I edged off to the side, keeping my eye on Ramsey’s pets. Lisa said, “Stay!” and caught up with me. “Just walk slowly. I’m not sure how long before they figure things out.”

  I imagined us running for the piling bridge with the Dobermans nipping at our heels. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Fortunately, about then, the dogs were distracted by the engine noise of a helicopter moving across the water toward the point. They began to bark and run around in circles as the chopper hovered near the artificial hill that contained the bomb shelter.

  We sprinted away toward the beach and followed the dunes until we came to the woodland path we had used earlier. Minutes later, we were at the piling bridge. Lisa went across first, dancing lightly over the pilings. I threw my bag to the opposite banking, then followed her, far less gracefully.

  We stopped to catch our breath, then we climbed into the Jeep, drove back onto the road and headed for Siasconset. Lisa began to laugh, softly at first, then louder until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “What’s so funny?” I said, miffed to be left out of the joke.

  “Your reaction when you saw Michael’s dogs. It was the first time since we’ve met when you haven’t had a wry observation.”

  I had to admit it must have sounded funny from her angle. I forced a smile and said, “Bow-wow.”

  We both laughed at the shared joke, but then Lisa stopped suddenly.

  “Soc, we’ve got to get that prisoner out of there. No one should live like that. I can’t imagine who it could be.”

  I murmured in agreement, but unlike Lisa, I had seen the name on the prescription bottles and knew exactly who was being held underground.

  Sean Malloy, the owner of the MAC lab I had explored on the mainland.

  I just didn’t know why.

  CHAPTER 23

  The warm charm of the Daggett house kitchen was light-years removed from the world of snarling guard dogs, swooping helicopters and a prisoner held in an underground shelter built to house the country’s government after a nuclear holocaust.

  Lisa stood at the stove, grilling ham and cheese sandwiches on thick slices of homemade oatmeal bread. I sat at the long trestle table, letting a cup of herbal tea grow cold in front of me. The lovely smell of heated butter filled the air. We could have been any couple settling in for a late-night snack. Lisa served the sandwiches and sat down. I took a dainty bite, pronounced it the finest ham and grilled cheese sandwich I had ever tasted, and gazed across the table.

  “DNA is a wonderful thing,” I said.

  She stopped with her sandwich poised in mid-air. “What in the world does DNA have to do with grilled ham and cheese?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the sandwiches. I was making a scientific observation. On top of the stress of having your grandfather accused of murder, tipping him into a temporary insanity, you have been shot at and growled at. But here you are, keeping it all together. Your harpooner ancestor, who hunted seventy-foot-long sperm whales with a spear, obviously passed on the steely calm and determination that he would have needed to do his job.”

  “Determination, yes. Not so sure about the calm.” She puffed her cheeks out. “I’m roiling inside.”

  “That’s a natural reaction. We had a run for our money tonight.”

  “It’s not just our experience out there. I’m upset at the thought of someone being kept in that horrible bomb shelter. Do you think we should call the police?”

  I slowly savored another bite while I pondered her question. “That’s an option,” I said. “Say we drive to the police station and tell the cops someone is being held a prisoner in an underground shelter on the property of one of the island’s most prominent and richest taxpayers. What do you think they’ll do?”

  “They would have to investigate, no matter how rich Michael is.”

  “Correct. But they would tread carefully and respectfully, which would warn Michael of their intentions and allow him time to remove the prisoner and clean up the bunker. We would look like crazy fools.”

  “You make a good point. But what can we do?”

  “We can’t do anything. We’re going to need help.”

  “Your scary friend?”

  I nodded. “We’ll have to wait until Flagg can lend a hand. I’ll give him a call tonight. In the meantime, I suggest we finish our meal, turn in and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll tackle the problem with fresh minds in the morning.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said with a shrug of resignation. “Just keep that invisible bed board ready in case I wake up in the middle of the night with the shivers.”

  “I’ll b
e sure to do that,” I said. “Thanks for the snack.”

  I got up from the table and gave her a quick hug. She clung to me few seconds, then the Hendricks toughness reasserted itself. “I’ll check on Gramps and crawl into bed. See you at breakfast?”

  I said I’d be there at eight. I walked back to my garage apartment. Rosen’s car was in the driveway and his cottage lights were out. I imagined him recording the household comings and goings from behind the shades. Well, screw him.

  The light on my telephone answering machine was blinking. There were two messages. One was from Warner, the antiques dealer, saying he would love to meet with me to talk about the scrimshaw collection. He left a number to call. The other call was from Cousin Alex who said he had some information.

  I called Warner first, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. He didn’t seem perturbed and got right to the subject at hand. The lure of money is a wonderful motivator.

  “I’m free tomorrow, Mr. Socarides. I’ll be on the island in the morning, if that’s convenient for you.”

  Since all I had to do the next day was to figure out how to rescue a prisoner and torpedo a drug ring, of course I said yes, and agreed to meet him at the ferry dock. I called Alex next. He was still up and working.

  “I talked to some financial guys in Boston. They had friends on Wall Street. The word is that Ramsey has put all his eggs in one basket. Made some risky foreign investments and they’ve fallen through.”

  “Foreign, as in Russia?”

  There was a pause, then Alex said, “Yeah. Russia. How’d you know?”

  “I may have met one of his business partners. What’s the skinny with your pal Chili?”

  “I called him like you suggested and said I was ready to deal. That I’d come to Nantucket and see him. I could almost hear the bastard licking his chops.”

  “Thanks, Alex. You’ve done a great job. We’ll talk soon.”