Dimo, standing beside him now as Boiko paid for their take-out orders, tipped an arm toward the big man, palm out, and crossed his body with the other arm so they swept together, parallel in a gesture that said, “Voilà!”
Angel extended his massive arm, and I shook his hand. It felt like some dense chunk of polished wood. A spectacular grin split the giant’s face. “Do not worry! I shake hands very gentle.”
“Good to know.”
“Angel Vaslev.”
“Henry Kennis. Good to meet you.”
“Likewise. Dimo says I work for you, protect your woman, yes?”
“For a while. I’m not sure how long the job will last.”
“Does not matter, I work for nothing. I have big disability payment from Bulgarian government.”
I looked him over. “You’re disabled?”
Another chrome-glare grin. “No. I lie!”
Dimo stepped in. “Angel work for Voenna Politsiya, the military police. He was wounded in big gunfight with men stealing electronic materials from Navy for black market.”
“Shot and disabled!” Angel clarified.
“He visit United States to be with family. He recovers. Money keeps coming. No one knows!”
“Everyone happy,” Angel added. “Government takes care of Angel—feels good! Angel takes care of Angel—feels better! And you get free bodyguard for woman. Best of all.”
“Are all Bulgarians criminals?” I asked, half joking.
“We are not criminals! We are free enterprise men! Like America.”
“Angel strong,” Boiko said, handing the giant a pair of wooden chopsticks from a jug of them on the countertop. “Show him, Angel.”
The big man took the two chopsticks, gently separated them then laid them across his fist, with his middle finger curled over them. He clenched his hand into a fist with a grimace of concentration, and after a second or two the pieces of wood cracked and broke, sticking up on either side of his thick finger. “People who hurt your woman, I snap like chopsticks,” he said.
I winced. “Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.”
When they left with their food, I took apart a pair of chopsticks and tried Angel’s trick with one of them. All I did was hurt my fingers. I was impressed, but better than the man’s brute strength was the fact that he’d been an MP. He knew police procedures and tactical planning. He could stake out a house and, despite his little show, take down a suspect without serious injury. That was essential. If this hoodie person was a real threat, I wanted him—or her—alive and well and sitting in one of my interrogation rooms, not DRT (Dead Right There, as we used to say in the LAPD) because of an overeager bodyguard.
I admit I had more or less come around to Jane’s way of thinking by the next morning, a spectacular early autumn display of peerless blue skies and dry cool air, with a light breeze out of the north sifting the first leaves off the big honey locust, ash, and silver maple trees that shaded Darling Street. The bright, dazzling town seemed the least likely spot in the world for evil plans and nefarious behavior.
Jane drove the kids to school, and I had one more cup of coffee before I stepped out of the house into the sharp Atlantic sunlight.
Dimo saw me and snapped a mock salute. “Ready for our new day of vigilance, boss.”
I nodded to him. “Just stay out of sight.”
It was a tedious morning until my appointment with Karen Gifford. I spent the best hours of the day finishing up Haden’s performance ratings on the summer specials in my overlarge, overheated office, worrying about his whereabouts and listening to the sounds of construction from the over-the-top fire station being built next door. I couldn’t imagine the plague of arson or the terrorist attack that could justify this new fortress, which could easily serve North Providence or South Boston. It reminded me of Jane’s rueful description of Nantucket: “A city at sea.”
I called Haden one more time but still got bounced to voicemail. Where the hell was he? Could he have really fallen off the wagon? Was he still with the elusive hoodie person? Had he been kidnapped by the hoodie person or killed by the hoodie person? If the person was in fact Billy Delavane, had Haden kidnapped him? Or were they just launched on Billy’s surfing safari together? Haden had surfed as a kid, though he hadn’t been near the water in years.
I yanked myself out of the speculation spiral. Still, the thought persisted: even on days off or sick days, Haden had always answered his phone or at least picked up his messages often enough to get back to me promptly.
I set my phone on the desk and took up the next evaluation. Haden was a big boy. He could take care of himself. If he was sleeping off a bender, I should just let him sleep. If he was surfing, good for him. If he had snapped, which he hadn’t, there wasn’t much I could do about it right now.
But I kept one eye on the silent black rectangle as I worked.
Karen Gifford came into my office without knocking at a few minutes before noon. She was a lovely girl, but she looked terrible at that moment, her face pulled down into lines of fatigue and worry, her hair a tangled mess.
“Karen?”
“I went to Monica Terwilliger’s house this morning. I was worried.”
“Is Monica okay?”
“She’s gone. I found this on her pillow.”
She strode to my desk and set a single penny down on the blotter.
“That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Like leaving a note saying you’re coming back. Mike Henderson found one on Cindy’s pillow.”
“David Trezize is gone, too. He’s off-island, supposedly.”
“No penny there.”
“Not on the pillow. But I looked around a little. He has a pair of penny loafers. One of the pennies was pried out of the shoe. I found it on the floor of his closet. And there was one on the floor next to Haden Krakauer’s bed, too. I just came from there.”
I sat forward. “What are you saying?”
She stared at me. “You know exactly what I’m saying.”
“Someone has come back here and they’re…kidnapping people, and leaving the penny as a calling card. Or, alternatively…this is just a crazy conspiracy theory. Everyone is accounted for, and people come and go all the time.”
“What about the pennies?”
“People are careless with them—it’s the one coin you probably won’t bother to pick up if you drop it. Besides…the only person who might have been hatching a crazy plan like that was found dead in his own private jet. If it was happening, it’s over.”
She considered that. “Maybe, Chief. But you ought to talk to Jane about this. She knew all these people growing up. If she sees the big picture, she might have an answer for you, or see some pattern you missed because, you know…”
“I’m a washashore.”
“Basically.”
“I’ll call her right now.”
I picked up my phone and hit the speed dial.
“Hi, this is Jane. Leave me a message. It’s not necessary anymore since my phone has your number and the time of your call. But it’s friendly, and that counts for something.”
I set the phone down. “Voicemail. My life is ruled by voicemail.”
“Maybe she left her phone somewhere. I do that all the time.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t.” We stared at each other. “I’m starting to freak out a little now, Karen. Do me a favor, come back to the house with me. In case I need…”
“Backup?”
“Or just another pair of eyes.”
“What about your bodyguard guys? There’s three of them there, right?”
“Right.” I called Dimo.
He picked up. “Yes, boss?”
“Everything okay over there?”
“Everything good. I make coffee run.”
“So you’re not there?”
“I�
��m at Fast Forward.”
“Get back.” I stood up. “There’s only two of them there now.”
Karen jumped to her feet. “Let’s go.”
We were in my cruiser, turning onto Old South Road with the flashers pushing the traffic aside, when the incongruous jaunty “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” guitars broke the silence. I dug the phone out of my pocket and glanced at the screen.
“It’s my mom.” I ignored Karen’s aghast, wide-eyed stare. “Mom?”
“Henry, there’s a man in the house. I think he’s done something to those Bulgarian boys. He has a gun—he’s looking for Jane.”
“Hang up and hide. Get out of sight. Do it now. I’m on my way.”
Karen picked up the radio handset and cocked her head in quick question. I nodded, hit the siren, and stomped the gas.
“Officer needs assistance,” Karen shouted into the commo. “Possible 10-17 at number 10 Darling Street, number one zero Darling Street, all units respond.” 10-17 was the “shots fired” code. “Repeat 10-17 at 10 Darling Street.”
She disconnected with a grimace of stymied rage. There was nothing she could do now but sit tight. I tore down Pleasant Street past the Stop & Shop, sirens screaming full blast, fear and guilt closing my throat. Somehow, I had put my mother in the crosshairs of this lunatic, and Jane, too. Jesus Christ, Jane! Why had I ever listened to her? Thank God the kids were safe in school, as long as another shooter didn’t pop up. The world was insane.
I jabbed Dimo’s number into the phone, swerving to avoid a woman rolling her baby carriage in the street.
He picked up before I heard it ring. “They’re dead,” he wailed, so loud that Karen could hear him. “They are shot—he has kill them. Boiko! Oh, God, Boiko!”
I disconnected, blew through the Five Corners intersection, skidded onto Silver Street, took the hard left, and gunned it the wrong way up Pine Street. We were less than thirty seconds out. I could hear other sirens.
Karen was squeezing her own throat. “What is happening? What is going on?”
I had no answer for her. I cranked the right onto Darling Street, screaming to a stop in front of my house. We were the first to arrive. I could near Dimo wailing somewhere off to the side. I dashed out of the car, took the front steps in two strides, and pushed inside.
My mother was standing in the hall, leaning on her walker, supernaturally calm. “They’re gone, Henry. He took her away.”
I turned to Karen. “Get my mother a glass of water and sit her down in the living room. Call an EMT unit. I want her checked out.”
I moved carefully past them up the stairs and along the corridor to our bedroom. I could see signs of a struggle—the overturned console table, the shattered lamp—but the gun must have cut it short.
I kicked open the bedroom door. “Jane?!”
She was gone. Mom was right about that.
And there was a penny on her pillow.
Chapter Thirteen
Judgment at Snake Hollow
Billy said, “You don’t know what’s going to happen. Anything can happen. Someone could die from smoke inhalation in there, or fall and hit their head, or get third degree burns. Then you’re looking at felony assault or even second degree murder, along with destruction of property and arson. You don’t want that. We won’t turn you in. No one has to know. The gas will evaporate. It’ll be like nothing happened.”
Jane said, “You’re not a criminal. You’re better than this.”
I ignored Billy. I spoke only to her. I said, “Run away with me.”
—From Todd Fraker’s deleted blog
Todd Fraker was running out of time.
He felt every second passing as he studied the five men and three women handcuffed to the steel bar in his family’s shack on Coatue, thinking of Mark Twain’s famous remark that truth was stranger than fiction. Well, Todd had written the fiction, and twenty years later he’d turned it into the truth, so he had earned the right to disagree. Truth wasn’t stranger than fiction. It was bigger and smaller and better and worse.
Most of all, it was much, much harder to control.
So many problems and glitches and complications. Nothing proceeded according to plan. You had to improvise. In “Nuremberg II,” his protagonist assembled the culprits of his childhood ordeals in a Romanian castle with all the time in the world to enact the ceremonies of punishment and retribution. A castle in Romania! He couldn’t even find Romania on a map—then or now. He was stuck with a shack on Coatue. The watch on his wrist was a fuse, burning and sputtering toward the detonation.
Gathering his personal war criminals here on Nantucket under the noses of their friends and their families and the local police had been a logistical nightmare.
But doable. He had done it.
Not alone, of course—he realized that. His best friend and his half brother had helped. Of course they had. But Sippy was gone. Ultimately, he couldn’t be trusted. Ultimately, there was no one you could really trust but your family. That was the fact, the one tie that bound you forever. He and Lonnie were brothers. Nothing else mattered. But Lonnie was stuck running interference with the police. Todd was alone with his captives. They were hungry and thirsty, they needed to relieve themselves, and every trip to the porta-potty in the other shack was a risk and a liability.
Plus, Ed Delavane was in rough shape. Sippy had purchased four vintage antique bear traps from the 1960s on Etsy. Todd had surrounded Ed’s treasure trove with them, and the ambush had worked, but Ed was badly hurt. It had been almost impossible to open the trap to free his leg, and now the big man was hobbled and suffering extreme pain, going into shock with an open fracture of the shin bone.
Todd had done the basics—tied a rough tourniquet, elevated the feet, eased Ed onto his side, covered him with a blanket…but without access to oxygen and antibiotics and intravenous fluids, there was nothing more he could do. He had to finish the trial and the execution while Ed was still aware enough to know what was happening to him, before infection and delirium set in. Plus, he only had one gun left in his arsenal, and it was Lonnie’s old Police Special .38 with no stopping power and a rusty barrel.
Everything was unraveling. But it had all started so well.
Taking his victims had been easy, and reading each of them the inventory of their crimes had lifted some oppressive burden from him. It was a physical pleasure, like pulling off heavy, sweat-drenched clothes on a summer day and plunging into the ocean. Their whining defenses had been so predictable, but that was a good thing. Like his mother had always said about the romance novels she loved to read—“Sure they’re predictable! As predictable as the next Godiva chocolate.”
Todd’s favorite plea was that his victims wanted to put the past behind them and “move on.”
“Well,” Todd had told Mark Toland, “this is how I’m moving on.”
Of course that wasn’t strictly true, or at least not in the way they understood it. Todd wasn’t going anywhere. He had reached his destination. The last body dangling from the noose would be his own. Why did mass shooters shoot themselves at the end of their killing sprees? People always asked that. But the answer was obvious.
They stopped because they were done.
No second chances, no second acts. No cash-grab sequels, no coming out of retirement for one last tour, no final six-week engagement in Vegas for the losers and the drunks.
You finish. The lights go out. And you walk off the stage for the last time.
Or you step off the gallows.
That’s why he had lined up nine lengths of rope, not eight, with a loop for the gibbet hook on one end and the noose on the other.
You choose your own ending. Nobody else.
Only Ed Delavane and Jane Stiles were left to interrogate and convict. Now that he finally had her, the hangings could begin.
He crossed the rough
-plank floor and kicked Delavane awake. The others were weak and starving and dehydrated, but Delavane’s grunt of pain got their attention. Had Todd cracked one of the big man’s ribs? He hoped so. Nothing hurt quite like a cracked rib, except a broken one, so aim the next kick well!
Delavane looked up. “Fuck do you want?”
His face was contorted with pain but also rage and contempt. An intolerable look. The urge to kick him and keep on kicking him until there was nothing left to kick twisted through Todd like a cramp. Get control. Walk it out.
When he spoke, he was calm. “Thanks for asking, Ed. I want to talk to you…or, more accurately, I want to begin your direct examination.”
“Right. We’re all on trial. So where’s my lawyer?”
“You’ll have to fill that role yourself. Just like all the others. But I must remind you…a man who acts as his own lawyer has a fool for a client.”
“So get on with it, you little freak. My leg’s getting infected, and I need a doctor.”
“Not for long.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m asking the questions, Ed. And I want to talk about what happened in high school.”
“Nothing happened in high school.”
“Do you remember what you called me?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Mr. Peanut. And James Bascomb was Fish Face.”
“I didn’t make up those names.”
“No, but you took credit for them. And you never let them go.”
“So I called you names! So what?”
“It means nothing to you.”
“It don’t mean much, Mr. Peanut.”
Todd kicked him again. Bull’s-eye on the cracked rib. The howl of pain was almost unbearably sweet. When the grunting and moaning died down, Todd continued. “Do you remember forcing me to shower in the girls’ bathroom?”
“You ratted me out for cheating.”
“You tricked me into playing heads-or-tails for my clothes with a trick silver dollar.”
“Hey Mr. P., I’ve been here for the last three days. So has everyone else. We all know your sad story. Toland had the idea, and your friend Krakauer over there supplied the coin.”
Nantucket Penny Page 18