“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Dawn gave her a little smile. “My mom used to call me that.” And then the smile faded.
Weezy understood: My mom …
She wondered at her feelings for this woman-child. In less than a year Dawn had weathered the murder of her mother, the loss of her home, months as a fugitive and virtual prisoner, pregnancy, childbirth, the abduction of her child and yet … she was still a vulnerable teenager.
Jack teased her about Dawn, about how she became all motherly whenever she was around. She supposed it was true.
Supposed? No. Don’t kid yourself. Own it: She’s some sort of surrogate daughter, the child you never had, never will have.
Weezy had always assumed she’d be an inept mother. Her emotions had become untethered during her teen years and never fully grounded since; plus she saw herself as too involved in her own little world to give herself fully to a child. Now she wasn’t so sure. Now she wished she’d taken the plunge, because she could have been a damn good mother. And she would have been proud to have a daughter like Dawn. Yes, she’d made some terrible mistakes, some awful decisions that had left her bruised, battered, chipped, and dented, but she still was functioning. That girl had steel in her core.
But she still needed some guidance, some mothering.
Weezy could provide that.
“How about we make some breakfast together?”
Dawn made a face. “You don’t want anything I cook.”
“You can’t be worse than me. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She glanced toward the front of the house. “Shouldn’t we be watching the mansion?”
“I’ve been watching it all morning. Nothing shaking over there. We’ll whip up something and eat it by the window. Fair enough?”
Dawn smiled. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
When they reached the kitchen, Weezy poured Dawn a cup of coffee.
“Hope you like it strong.”
“Like a black hole.”
“Meaning?”
“Milk disappears when you pour it in.”
Weezy beamed at her. “Black-hole coffee. I like that.”
Dawn looked around. “Where’s Jack?”
“Took the jitney into the city.”
“What for?”
“To gather the means to remove the obstacles between you and your baby.”
Could she phrase “murder” any more obliquely than that?
“How is he going to do that?”
“He’s not saying. But he is saying that if all goes according to plan you should have your baby back tonight.”
Dawn fumbled her coffee cup, nearly dropping it.
“You’re kidding! Tonight?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Does he really mean it?”
“Obviously, you don’t know Jack.”
2
“Oy, such powerful stuff,” Abe said, gently placing the gallon paint can atop the scarred counter. “I’ll be glad when you take it off my hands.”
“Why? LX-14 is stable.” That was why Jack had ordered it.
“That’s just it. I couldn’t get LX-14—at least not near the quantity you wanted.”
“Aw.”
Abe patted the can. “Octol will do the job.”
“Octol … what’s the mix?”
“Seventy-five/twenty-five.”
Hmm. Three quarters HMX, one quarter TNT … LX-14 was 95 percent HMX. Not quite the same.
“Detonation velocity is ninety-one hundred,” Abe added.
Well, okay, yeah, that would get it done.
“Cool. And the paint can is a nice touch.”
Jack spotted a letter opener nearby and used it to pry loose the lid. A chemical odor wafted out as he lifted it. He made a show of sniffing the air.
“I love the smell of aliphatics in the morning.”
Abe was shaking his head. “If you’re ever caught with this…”
“I know. They’ll think I’m some homegrown jihadist. Especially when they find my Koran.”
“That way at least you’ll get special treatment, not to mention a special diet.”
“Kosher?”
Abe shrugged. “Either way, no more pulled-pork sandwiches for you.”
“I could handle that. Don’t know how long I can go without a beer, though.”
“Then you should go kosher if you can.”
Jack shook his head. “I suppose they’ll be even more upset if they find my copper cones.”
Abe’s smile faded. “Shaped charges?”
Jack nodded. “Roadside IEDs. A matching pair.”
When Jack got back to Nuckateague he planned to pack the claylike octol around the copper cones, insert a detonator connected to the receiver of a garage-door opener, then fit each into its own little open-ended container.
Abe said, “How big are these cones?”
“Eight inches across at the mouth.”
Abe winced. “You’re taking out maybe a tank, an armored half-track?”
“No, a Mercedes.”
“Gevalt! All that for a car?”
“Well, it is a classic SEL.”
“Seriously, Jack—”
“One on each side, Abe. Simultaneous detonation.”
“Do you realize—?”
He nodded. Two high-pressure plasma jets of molten metal penetrating each side of the car at eight thousand meters per second, heating the interior to ten thousand degrees and igniting the gas tank to add to the party.
“I’m not taking any chances with this guy.”
“Then why the Stingers?”
“Insurance. Backup.”
“Because turning the car into a supernova isn’t hot enough already?”
“Because things can always go wrong. Detonators fail, he might change plans. I don’t have a team of observers along the route, I don’t have time to experiment, I don’t have an expert to help me set it up. Just little old me. If the IEDs are placed at the wrong distance, the molten copper in the plasma jet will solidify into a slug that will punch a hole in the car but can’t be counted on to disable it, and certainly not turn it into the inferno I need to make this work.”
“And this will happen where? Not on the LIE, I should hope.”
Jack shook his head. “Much closer to his home. In fact, home will be in sight when I hit him.”
He waggled his pudgy fingers in a “gimme” move. “Run it for me.”
“I got up extra early this morning and checked out the road leading to the mansion.”
“Sandy?”
“I wish. They’re too damn civilized out there. Too damn rich to want to get their tires dirty. Would’ve loved sand. Then I could dig a hole and set the charges to blast straight up through the floor of his car as it passed over.”
Abe was nodding. “But…?”
“But it’s paved with asphalt—cracked and buckled, yeah, but still too tough to break through without a jackhammer. So I’ve got to make do with roadside—two big mean, opposing charges flanking the road just east of the mansion.”
“And it has to be tonight? Isn’t that pushing?”
Maybe it was, but Jack didn’t see that he had a choice.
“It’s too good to pass up. I know he’s being picked up at six. I know it will take him about two hours to get there. The neighborhood’s deserted. And I need to hit him before he gets into that house.”
“Why?”
“Because once he’s in there, who knows when he’ll leave again? When will I get another chance to know his schedule in advance? It’s got to be tonight.”
“What about this strange baby? You want him, right?”
“Not for myself. No way. But Dawn does. And she’s another reason I need to strike sooner than later: I don’t know how long I can hold her in check.”
“You shouldn’t have involved her maybe?”
“No choice. She found the place. I can’t very well ship her out. But here’s the scenario: Georges leaves around
four o’clock to head for JFK. After he’s gone, I set up my roadside IEDs about fifty yards east of the mansion. At six o’clock Georges picks up his boss and heads back. Around seven, Weezy, Dawn, and I invade the mansion. We tie up Gilda and relieve her of the baby. Weezy and Dawn head back to Manhattan with the kid. I wait in the bushes with my remote detonator. When Rasalom’s Mercedes passes between the charges, I set them off and he becomes a piece of the Colonel’s Extra Crispy recipe. Then I get in my Vic and ease on down the road to the city.”
“And that’s it? Humanity will be saved?”
Jack shrugged. “Saved from the Change, not from itself.”
“Well, that would be too much to ask anyone.”
“That’s the plan, anyway. But just in case … just in case he somehow gets out of the car and is staggering around in flames, I’ll finish him with a Stinger. I’m assuming you were able to get them.”
“You doubt? Delivered yesterday.”
“Excellent. And the MM-1?”
Abe heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. “Haven’t found one yet.”
Jack couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Abe…”
“Such short notice you give me.” He waved his hands in the air. “You think they grow on trees? These are not the low-hanging fruit of the arms world. How many do you think are around already? And finding someone who has one and wants to part with it—you should be so lucky. They’re all maybe fans of—what’s his name again?”
“Christopher Walken?”
“That’s it. They’re Christopher Walken fans, maybe, and want to snuggle it close to their bosoms. Who knows? If I had a little more time…” He gave one of his shrugs.
“Tonight’s the night.”
“Well, I did track down a modified thumper.”
“An M-79?”
“Shoots the same grenade or a forty-millimeter round.”
“But it’s single shot. And it’s break action. I might need to get off a few shots real quick like.”
“Hit close with one of those HE rounds and there won’t be a pupik’s worth of him left.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Nu? Needing a second shouldn’t be a concern.” He held up a finger. “But not to worry, because your uncle Abe has solved the problem. He has found you an M-79 with the China Lake modification.”
“The what?” That was a new one.
“A naval research station designed a four-round pump-action version of the M-79 for SEAL use. Only thirty were made. Unless I should rob a museum, those are impossible to find. But a fellow I know in South Dakota makes working replicas, mostly for collectors and gun pornists, and they’re lighter and more reliable than the China Lakes. He shipped me one.”
“Four shots?”
Abe nodded.
Well … not the twelve rounds the MM-1 offered but … He drummed his fingers on the counter.
“All right, I’ll take it. I’m already stocked up on the grenades and ammo, so I might as well.” He looked around. “And the Stingers are…?”
Abe pointed behind Jack. “Right there.”
He turned and saw a golf bag with half a dozen clubs jutting from it. Two carpet-wrapped bundles lay on the floor next to it.
“Really?”
“The golf bag is home for the M-79. Like a glove it fits.”
Jack had to smile. “You knew I’d go for it.”
“Like you said, the ammo you’ve got, why waste it? The clubs I added for authenticity. No charge.”
“But I hate golf.”
“This is the Isher Sports Shop, bubbela. I should send you out the door carrying a grenade launcher? And each of those rugs holds an FIM-92 Stinger—no case, just the rocket and launcher.”
“Nice. I can squeeze those into the Vic’s trunk along with the golf bag.”
“It’s big enough?”
“Will be after I evict the immigrant family that’s renting it now.” He turned back to Abe and leaned on the counter. “So, what do you think of the plan?”
Abe pouted, furrowed his brow, then said, “It’s simple, direct, and to the point. It should work like a charm, but…”
Jack didn’t want to hear a but.
“Meaning?”
“Something is bound to go wrong.”
His own gut had been telling him the same.
“Exactly what I’m thinking.”
3
“Let me spell you,” Dawn said.
Weezy rubbed her eyes. Focusing and refocusing between the Compendium on her lap and the house across the street had given her a headache.
“Gladly.” She took one last glance at the mansion as she began to rise. “Nothing doing over there any—” The front door flew open and a man dressed in a yellow nor’easter and jeans stepped out. “Hang on a sec.”
He started across the yard toward the detached garage.
“That’s Georges!” Dawn said, pressing against Weezy’s back for a better view. “Has he got the baby with him?”
From the way his arms swung at his sides, Weezy knew he couldn’t, but she raised the glasses anyway.
“Nope. Empty-handed.”
She bit her lip as she watched him enter the garage by the side door. Was he going somewhere simple and mundane—like the grocery store? Or had plans changed and Rasalom was coming in early? No way she could know. She was going to have to call Jack.
But then Georges emerged carrying a pair of fishing poles.
“Going fishing,” Dawn said. “He must do that every day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shortly after I got here yesterday I saw him pull the boat into the dock and get out with a bunch of flat fish.”
“What did they look like?”
Weezy didn’t really care, just something to talk about as they watched him board the boat and set the rods in holders near the stern.
“One side was white and the other was medium brown with dark splotches.”
Weezy nodded. “Winter flounder. Good eating.”
“You fish?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I just … know.”
It’s what I do.
“Nice cozy little life they’ve got out here,” Dawn said, her tone bitter. “Big house, beautiful view, fresh fish daily … and my baby.”
“Not for long, Dawn. Not for long.”
Weezy kept the glasses trained on him as he opened the engine hatch—to release fumes, maybe?—then started the engine. He fussed with the rods while the engine warmed.
She said, “He must really love fishing if he’s going out in this weather.”
The bay teemed with whitecaps, but the water here was relatively sheltered. She wondered what the surf looked like on the ocean side of the South Fork. The Atlantic had to be pretty wild right now.
Dawn said, “Maybe Gilda’s planning a welcome-home fish fry for Mr. Osala.”
Weezy glanced at her, sensing fuming sulfuric acid when she said “Gilda.”
They watched Georges cast off the lines and head out into the bay until the boat disappeared behind the house.
“Take a break,” Dawn said. “My turn.”
Weezy rose from the chair and handed her the Leica.
“I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
“No more for me, thanks. I’ve had more than enough.”
More than enough coffee? Weezy found that an alien concept.
“This from the girl who likes ‘black-hole’ coffee?”
“I’m wound up enough as it is.”
Yeah, she probably was.
“Hang in there. This should all be over by tonight.”
Down in the kitchen, as Weezy filled the carafe with water for the O’Donnells’ Mr. Coffee, she glanced out the back door and saw flashing lights. Not good. When you’d invaded someone’s home, flashing lights were not good. At least they weren’t blue-and-red police lights. These were orange. Still …
She put the carafe down and stepped to the
door for a better look. Yes, flashing orange lights visible between the houses on the next street, down by the highway …
… where she’d parked the Jeep.
“Oh, Christ!”
She dashed back into the front room, grabbed the keys and her coat, then called upstairs.
“Gotta go down to the Jeep! Be right back!”
She didn’t wait for a reply as she dashed out the back door. Only a hundred yards or so. She’d make it in no time.
She ran across the O’Donnells’ backyard into the scrub that buffered their property from the houses behind. She cut through a neighbor’s yard—again, nobody home—and onto Bayberry Drive, the street parallel to Dune.
No doubt about it. Those lights belonged to a tow truck. Aw, no. She’d parked the SUV on a sandy path within the trees. It wasn’t bothering anybody there, and it hadn’t been visible from the road. How—?
She angled onto Nuckateague Road and raced down toward the highway. She reached it just in time to see a flatbed truck pull out with a Jeep Cherokee on its bed—her Cherokee. Or rather Jack’s.
She increased her speed, shouting and waving her arms as she chased it. Whoever was driving either didn’t look back or ignored her.
What on Earth?
She’d caught a glimpse of the writing on the driver’s door. She stuttered to a stop and called up the image: Neumeister’s Towing and Auto Body … with an Amagansett address and phone number below.
She reached into her coat pocket. She’d call those sons of—
Where was her phone? She searched through all her pockets. Damn! Back at the O’Donnell place, charging.
Puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, she turned in a small circle, stamping her feet in frustration.
So now what? Walk back to the O’Donnell place just to tell Dawn she’d be delayed, and then walk back here and beyond to get to Amagansett?
Didn’t make sense. And she couldn’t have Dawn drive her to town in the Volvo. That would mean leaving the mansion unwatched. Besides, Dawn’s car had to stay hidden. Best to just head into Amagansett and call her from there.
Wouldn’t take long to hitch into town, pay whatever fine was due for whatever ordinance they’d broken, then return.
She began heading west along Route 27—labeled the Montauk Highway out here. She walked backward, ready to stick out her thumb when a car approached.
The Dark at the End (Repairman Jack) Page 16