Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  “Yes; I saw you persuade him to lie on the floor.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Karl Marx said consciousness follows reality. So it was, after the president declared martial law, a select few realized the inevitability of the event.

  “Well, of course,” it was said, high above Central Park West, over Mimosas and Bloody Marys and the New York Review of Books. “I’ve long predicted something of the sort. One need not be an historian to cite June 30, 1934. The Night of the Long Knives; Hitler’s purge of the Nazi leaders.”

  “Are you calling this development a purge? Oh, I think not. No, his bizarre television performance was more reminiscent of Nixon’s Saturday Night Massacre, when he rid himself of Archibald Cox.”

  A refilling of a Baccarat goblet brought a momentary pause, and then a continuation of the rebuttal. “Whose prophetic words, if I recall, were, ‘Whether ours shall continue to be a government of laws and not of men is now for Congress and ultimately the American peop—”

  “Oh, it’s nothing of the sort. You’re such a fool, an absolute fool. Why I ever married you is a mystery.”

  “Mystery? HA! No mystery. It was Daddy’s trust fund, and the cottage on the Cape that piqued your passion, as surely as the moth besets the flame.”

  The verbal duel degenerated into a vodka-fueled pushing and shoving and smashing of crystal. The dispute was resolved when a Bearclaw Tactical Entry Team opened the penthouse door with a battering ram.

  So it came to pass a few of those ‘uwsies’ —Upper West Side Intellectuals—found themselves greeting the sunrise with frozen concentrate and a foolscap single sheet, detailing the rules and regulations of Camp Adirondack. Or Camp Pocono. Or Camp Berkshire. Or any of the other TIFs—Temporary Internment Facilities—strategically situated near the nation’s population centers. With heavy coastal concentrations.

  Many of the reporters and editors of the nation’s newspapers are based in New York and Washington. So it was only logical they were bused the short distance to Camp Catskill and Camp Shenandoah.

  The publishers of those newspapers, of course, were exempt, due to their relationship with whatever horseman was astride the beast. As was the rest of corporate America, save a few oddities located in the Bay Area and the Pacific Northwest.

  —o—

  Nick started the wrecker, and said, “At least we know she's still alive.” He pulled out his cell. “I’m going to check in at home, see how Poppy’s holding up.” He and his father-in-law had heard about Mary together, had Patty and Liz there with them; to console, to comfort, to share the loss. He had no idea of what it was like to lose a child. Lose two. Just having one missing made him sick to his stomach. If anything happened to Liz. . . He hit the speed dial and dropped the truck in gear. “Huh. No signal. Comcast is usually real strong.”

  “Let me try Verizon.”

  “The number’s—”

  “I know the number.” Nick looked over as he pulled away from the curb. Puzzled, surprised. “Liz gave it to me, last night. Didn’t you get the word? We’re new best friends. Sheesh. No bars. It worked fine a minute ago, when we googled the camp. What gives?”

  New Best Friend. He suddenly realized she was probably closer to Liz’s age than his. Man, did that make him feel old. Something about this girl made him think of Mary. She had that same ballsy attitude that had first stirred him, when his wife-to-be cuffed him in Heidelberg.

  He rolled up behind several hundred people carrying spray-paint signs on 9th Street toward Pennsylvania Avenue. They were the usual mix of anti-everythings who materialized whenever the government did anything. College kids, flower power geezers, and probably a few of Patty’s pals.

  A quartet of helmeted cops watched with folded arms as the small parade marched up the street. A CBS van had its mast raised and the microwave transmitter pointed at a cloudless sky. The Talent checked her makeup in a side mirror, and the cameraman did a sound check, while a producer tried to persuade a young woman in a tight Code Pink shirt to leave the march for her fifteen seconds of fame. They weren’t blocking traffic, because there wasn’t any.

  Nick turned on the rooftop strobes and beeped the horn. The sound drew the attention of the crowd and the cops. He edged through the group, which parted like the bow wave of an ocean liner. Surprisingly good-natured shouts of PIG and NAZI and middle fingers marked their passage. Kat got a few whistles. She tried her phone again.

  Nick pointed at a pay phone on a pole in the park. A ragged line waited for a chance to use it. “I guess we’re not the only ones with no bars. What the hell is going on?” Kat, playing the taciturn Yankee, used her eyebrows and a shrug in reply, so he turned on the two-way and keyed the mike. “Base 24, 3A23. Noodles. What’s up?”

  “Christ, is that you, Nick? You do still work here, right? The SOP when someone takes off in a wrecker, they turn on the radio.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got other things on my mind. Liz is missing. Long story. Stay away from the Cannon Works. We’re coming in. Where’s all the traffic?”

  “You ain’t heard the word? President has declared martial law. DC’s under a twenty four hour curfew. On account of the Interstate accidents. Some shit about foreign terrorists. We’re on full alert, all drivers instructed to report for work, a-sap. Except I can’t get ahold of half of them. Cell service is down. Land lines work, but who the hell has a telephone these days? Hey, get your ass in here, dude; this is way above the pay grade of a mechanic.”

  The MetroDC wrecker cruised the streets without challenge. Police cars, Bearclaw Humvees, and remote units from the networks and cable channels outnumbered the few out of town tourists getting the hell out of Dodge.

  —o—

  Al Moran chewed on his situation. After them two hooked him to some kind of big-ass machine, they took off to look for the kid at the cop shop. Leaving him all alone in this big, empty old factory. It was quiet enough that he could hear himself think. He thought his nose might be broken.

  He checked his pockets for the handcuff key. Shit. Ern would have a key for the bracelets, but Ern was twenty feet away, and he wasn’t going to be coming any closer. Poor, dumb ass Little Bro.

  Al had gone straight into the service from high school. They’d given him a bunch of tests, said he was qualified for Infantryman, or, due to his size, he could be an MP. Not knowing a damn thing about the modern army he figured an Infantryman spent a good bit of time walking to places you could ride. Then he learned nowadays soldiers rode most everywhere, either in trucks or helicopters.

  He’d been thinking about the Band of Brothers, on their walking tour of Europe. Straggling along country roads, when they wasn’t getting shot at. And needing a shave, a shower. MP’s, from what he’d seen that first week at Fort Dix, N-J, were sharp dressers, and either rode in regular cars or stood in one place. He’d said sign me on, and he did his tour dealing with drunks and thieves.

  When he mustered out he took a test, got a bunch of extra points from his MP service, and qualified for the Baltimore police academy. Ern joined him a year later, having bypassed the U.S. Army for a stint with the Baltimore Transit Authority.

  He stretched his legs on the floor. His ankle hurt like hell; should have kept that boot on. Kicking Paloma had been a mistake. He leaned back against the drill press and thought about the fight. Wrasslin’ on the floor, giving the man his famous Crusher Hug, he’d figured it was all over but disposing of the body, then taking turns with Ern on the bitch. But the bastard turned out to be another dirty fighter, used a head butt to get loose.

  The Chink lawyer told them to get rid of Nico-demo. He couldn’t remember why, not sure he ever knew why. Things had been kind of crazy these last few years, since they started up the HomSec department.

  He liked it better when he was just a street cop, and Baltimore's blacks were the enemy.

  He struggled to his hands and knees, to his feet. Hunched over, since his right wrist was still below his knee. So, now it was personal. Had been, ever
since Paloma bailed on them, ran into the junk yard. Man had more lives than a cat. Ern dead from some booby trap bomb. Maybe Paloma was a terrorist, the home grown kind. Was why the lawyer said to kill him. Whatever. Time to get out of this cuff, and finish the job. Then bend the bitch over a workbench, bone her six ways to Sunday. For Ern.

  —o—

  Nick left the wrecker in front of the Impound Office. He wanted to pick up a pair of leg irons, to go with the handcuffs he’d put on Al; extra security, seeing how big the man was. He could get frisky, riding in the front seat on the trip to HomSec.

  The leg irons dated from the days of J. Edgar; hell, Elliot Ness. You locked them with a device that looked like a big roller skate key. Noodles had found them under the seats of an old prisoner transport bus they’d sold at auction a few years back.

  Half a dozen drivers were inside, lounging on the car seats. The CCTV screens showed empty streets, save the occasional police vehicle or Bearclaw Humvee jerking past.

  The men were watching a drive-time show on an ancient, rabbit-eared television. Some woman talking to some movie star about something. “That’s the best you people can come up with?”

  Another dispatcher, a good bit older than Nick, looked at him. “Purt much. T’other two stations got their reg’lar soaps on. This set don’t get the cables.”

  “There’s nothing on the radio?”

  One of the drivers said, “You got your Country, you got your Rock, you got your Longhair. Anything we’re learning here, we’re getting off the police scanners, and the drivers that are still out with the hooks.”

  Another headed to the soda machine, fed it a dollar. “It’s like they gave an emergency, and no one came. I figured martial law would be more exciting.”

  Someone said, “Yeah. More like LA Law.”

  “Or Law and Order.”

  “What I want to know, is how am I supposed to get home, if there’s a curfew?”

  “Steal a tow truck?”

  That brought some laughter. Nick led Kat into the office, caught Noodle's sleeve on the way. He gave the old man a quick run down on his own troubles, then took Kat out the back door, and headed toward the Cannon Works.

  As they crossed the tracks she said, “It’s spooky there’s nothing on TV, radio, if what Noodles said is true.”

  “What did he say? I must have missed something in there.”

  “No, earlier, on the tow truck radio. The President declares martial law, and there’s nothing? Unless they’ve shut down the airwaves, the twenty-four-seven newsies would be all over the story.”

  “I wonder if he can do that. I've seen him send troops to some country I never heard of, but does he have the power to shut down tv networks?”

  “Two days ago I would have said no. But I've seen some crazy stuff—Levon said he could turn on your cellphone, and track you with it.” She stopped, grabbed his arm. “Hey! I bet we can do that with Liz's cell, when we get into HomSec.”

  Nick wrapped her in his arms, kissed her forehead, and grinned. “If you can do that, I'll buy you a beer. In Heidelberg.”

  One-eyed Al could rise just enough to see out the windows facing the Impound Yard. The sixty-year-old glass hadn’t been washed since Ike’s administration. But he didn’t need two good eyes and a shot of Windex to see Nico-demo and the HomSec puss heading his way. The babe he and Ern had checked out, joked about sharing some quality time in one of the soundproof interrogation cells. It could still happen.

  They were at the railroad tracks; rusty, hadn’t echoed with the squeal of a wheel in a half century. Unlike the other night; the memory of that sound coming back, crunched down in the Bureau car like a midget at the Shriner’s circus.

  He felt the bite of steel against his flesh. They were not walking so much as strolling. Taking their time to get here. He saw her tilt her head back and laugh at something Nico-demo said, and him smiling back. He had to get out of the fucking cuffs.

  Al grabbed the table of the drill press and dragged the machine to the bandsaw. The cast iron base squealed on the concrete floor. Had to move fast; they were not more than a minute or two from the door. He grabbed a rifle barrel from the workbench, and punched the dull red button, sending 220 volts through the motor.

  The triple V belts urged the pulleys into movement, and the two inch wide bandsaw blade began to move with a slow rumble that became a whine as the machine picked up speed. He put his shoulder into the drill press and toppled it, then squatted, and dead lifted the base in front of the blade.

  By now they had to have heard the noise. He felt the vibration, heard the snik snik as the hardened steel teeth bit into the handcuff. It set his own teeth on edge.

  “How are we going to get him from here to HomSec?”

  “Have to take him in the wrecker. If what we’ve heard is true, any other vehicle is in violation of the curfew. Be kind of hard to explain Al to a cop.” Nick grinned at her. “He can sit on your lap.”

  “Sure he can. How ‘bout we hook him to the back, tow him there?”

  “I wonder would that work?”

  Al left the machine running, ran himself, as best he could with his ankle, to the wall. He found his pistol where it had landed an hour earlier, and scooped it up. Pop the dago as he comes through the door, bang bang, then take his own sweet time with Puss, get some payback for Ern. He racked the slide as they came through the door.

  They came through the door, side by side, arms linked like an actual couple. And there was the live Moran, not handcuffed to a machine, with a pistol in his hand. Deja vu; except this time she took a hard right, didn’t break stride, appeared not to hear, to see Federal Protective Service agent Moran; yelling, pointing his pistol at them.

  What she should have done, the first time. Except the first time was the First Time, and when you’ve grown up in Northern Vermont, the closest thing to armed combat is a hair pulling free-for-all when a dodgeball game gets out of hand during Girl's Gym.

  First time, confronting Al and Ern, there was no field of reference. Now there was, and the synapses were firing at the speed of light, with her brain a millisecond behind.

  So when she saw Al, saw the same gun in his hand, she went with a different option. Because the first one hadn’t worked out so well. She had a bruise on her hip, acquired when she fell from Ern’s stun gun application.

  Nick had more bruises, a nasty cut, and Al had one black eye and the other swollen shut. And then there was brother Ern, cooling down on the grimy concrete floor. But she was the only one out a pair of Hanes Silky Sheer pantyhose.

  Fifty feet down the center of the vast space she stopped, drew her Glock. Al went from having the drop on the two of them to being in a crossfire. If Nick ever bothered to pull his own weapon, clipped inside his belt.

  Kat moved into the deep shadows. Nick didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. Just standing there, watching Al watching her. What was that saying? For a woman to succeed, she has to be twice as good as the men. Fortunately, it wasn’t that hard.

  Once again Kat aimed her pistol at Al. She raised her voice. “I have ten bullets in my magazine. I bet I can put one of them in you, while you’re shooting Nick.” She moved a few steps to her left, putting thirty tons of cast iron gantry crane between her and Al. In the lowering dusk only her pale face was visible. That, and her rock steady hands, gripping the Glock.

  Nick figured this man wasn’t on a suicide mission, and he kept his own hands away from his belt. The Big Picture was: talk him down from the ledge, and transport his ass to HomSec. Use his palm print and ID to get into the building, where we can find this Camp Catoctin. Find my daughter. So, we start from the beginning. “Why have you been trying to kill me?”

  Al thought, because I was told to, you asshole. But he didn’t think that was what the man wanted to hear. “Pal, I have no idea, and that’s the honest truth. That Chink lawyer said for me and Ern to get rid of you. He’s said it before, and we done it before.”

  He lowered his weapon t
o his side. Slowly. Paloma seemed like a player, knew the rules, such as they were. But Ms. HomSec there might have a sudden PMS attack, start shooting. “The government don’t always go to the trouble of sending people on a one-way Gulfstream ride. Or to Gitmo, for extraordinary rendition. Not when they’re like you. A no-account pain in the ass.”

  As he spoke he checked behind him, letting his peripheral vision map the big space. With just one eye it was hard to judge distance, but he could see a shaft of daylight coming through a gap between the wall and a big sliding door. A gap wide enough for him to slip through. If he could cover the distance before these two started shooting.

  That tall blond suit at HomSec had said Paloma was some kind of sniper or something, so the pistol in his pants was the weapon to watch. Looked like the 1911 model, only seven rounds in the mag, but all it took was one, if it was fired by a shooter. The girl didn’t know shit from Shinola. Ten rounds fired from fifty feet at a moving target. Forget her.

  He kept talking, giving the guy some bullshit about nothing personal, just doing my job, and at the same time moving away from the crossfire, backing toward the wall. There was enough old machinery he could probably make it. What the hell. He raised his weapon and opened fire on the dago.

  Nick saw the hand coming up. First rule of fighting, be it fists or knives or guns: Watch The Hands. So he was drawing his own weapon and thumbing off the safety and moving and bringing it on target as Al fired his first shot.

  Al missed, Nick missed.

  Kat started squeezing off rounds, keeping her eyes open this time. What had Nick said, during her lesson? Most gunfights happen at seven yards. Bullets were flying everywhere; noise echoed off the brick walls. Al swung his pistol in her direction, bullets whanged of the gantry crane as he ducked out of sight.

  Nick's Gold Cup boomed. She could tell the difference between it and the two 10’s. Her slide locked back. Her ears rang and the smell of gunpowder was strong. She looked for Nick. He was behind the big saw, its blade running in an endless circle. He punched the power switch and the machine died. Al was gone.