Solomon's Compass

by Carol Kilgore

  A series of beeps came from Kelly’s laptop.

  He opened one eyelid. “Are you secure?”

  “I have a new facial recognition program. It’s damn good—better than the FBI uses. The photos are transferring while I’m looking up plate numbers. Make sure everyone matches up.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” Now both his eyes were open.

  She hadn’t looked up. “Absolutely. Encrypted mobile broadband to tap into a secure line from your hotel with code buried in the reservations system. I used the masked encrypted line to activate a line with double encryption for Compass Points Secure. Everything is backfilled, flagged, and double-trapped.”

  “How can you be secure if you tapped in?”

  Her computer beeped again. She turned around. “Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t understand the answer to.”

  He sat up. “What about the beeps?”

  Kelly crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “The facial recognition software beeps on acquisition and completion. I can change the sound. You want a gorilla roar or horn honk? Or I can mute it.”

  “Not necessary. I just worry that the men in black suits get a signal each time you do, and I don’t want them to come calling.”

  “They’re minor league.”

  “Says she with spiky purple hair.”

  “My hair was only purple for a few weeks. Simon said it looked bruised.”

  Until yesterday, he hadn’t seen Kelly since Thanksgiving. Her purple hair and the black leather suit she’d worn for the family dinner had fired his dad right up, which had been her intent. Their work usually sent them in different directions. Each time he saw her, he never knew what her hair and eye color would be.

  “I like the red. Goes well with your real eye color.” He was grateful she’d ditched the yellow cat’s-eye contacts she once favored.

  “It’s not red. Honey blonde with copper. Says so on the boxes.”

  “Looks rusty. How’s Simon?” His sister had unique tastes, none more so than her genius husband, Simon Wetmore, who kept himself cocooned in an MIT physics lab.

  She flashed a brilliant smile. “Working on some tunneling issues.”

  Simon lived in a tunnel of his own, but he and Kelly understood each other and she was happy. That’s what mattered.

  “We’re trying to get pregnant.”

  Jake didn’t want that image in his head. “Good luck.”

  Kelly turned back to her laptop and entered more data. “Simon says we have a ninety-five point nine two chance of succeeding within six months.”

  The day Simon could calculate creation, Jake would eat his skivvies. “How long before we have names for these people?”

  “Results are coming in now.”

  “I thought I had time for a nap.” Six hours of sleep hadn’t cut it. If he could get to bed by ten tonight, he should be a new man tomorrow.

  “No way, bro.”

  He yawned on his way to the table she’d turned into desk space. “Who’s who?”

  “I’m waiting for one more. If we were in my office, I’d have additional monitors. I don’t want to minimize the window just yet.”

  Her computer chimed.

  “Okay. Ready.” She tapped some keys. The screen went black. Taylor Campbell’s photo came up and filled the space. Kelly had caught her looking back at the fallen limb. Kelly hit the spacebar. The photo narrowed to the left side of the monitor. Information filled the right.

  “The real Taylor Campbell. I have all you’ve sent on her, so no need to linger here.”

  Jake didn’t want Taylor’s photo to linger on the monitor. He liked the fire dancing from her eyes. When lightning struck and the limb fell, his gut had turned to mush. He yelled at Kelly to go so they could rescue her, but Taylor was running before Kelly put down her camera. Her rapid reflexes saved her life, and he’d been awestruck. He couldn’t be awestruck and do his job properly without risking her safety. And his. He needed objectivity. And distance.

  The screen filled with a second photo—a young Asian woman inside the chandlery. The information came up. “Trinh Le. We presumed she’s an employee. Can you check?”

  Kelly scrolled down. “Seven years. Since high school. Rock Harbor native. Married to a local police officer. No children. More?”

  “Not now. What’s your program comparing the photos to?”

  “Every concern that issues a photo ID has cloud storage. My program mines the cloud first. That’s as deep as it needed to go for these.” The next photo came up. “Will Knox.”

  “Right. Next.”

  The large man appeared.

  Kelly pointed. “Love his eyebrows.”

  The data came up. “Glen Upchurch. Detective. Rock Harbor Police Department. We guessed two for two.”

  The next photo. “Would you guess this guy drives a tow truck? He’s so slender, like Simon. August Janacek.”

  “Not typical.” Jake perused the information that followed. “The truck is registered to A.J.’s Towing.”

  The last image was the woman in the SUV who stopped to chat with Taylor and Janacek for a few minutes.

  “There’s a snazzy blonde for you, bro.”

  “Ball breaker.”

  Kelly laughed.

  The data appeared. “Zia Grant Markham. Owner of ZGM Properties. I was right—she’s a Realtor. Definitely a ball breaker.” He didn’t want a woman in his life right now. Especially not one who would demand things her way twenty-four/seven.

  “You want me to dig deeper on any of these, keep them on warm, or what?”

  “Just addresses for now, but keep them warm.”

  Kelly’s phone rang. “It’s Mom.”

  He headed for the sofa. “Say hi for me.”

  “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  Jake closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep for five minutes.

  “Is he all right?”

  Jake shivered, wide awake. Dad.

  “Don’t be silly. Dad is more important. He needs all of us.” Kelly rubbed her forehead.

  Jake got up and went to her side. She put her arm around his waist.

  “Okay. I understand. Jake will, too.”

  He gave her a questioning look, and she held up her index finger.

  “Probably not until tonight since it’ll be a connecting flight. Do you want me to bring you anything?” Kelly tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling while their mother talked. “Okay. I’ll call you.”

  Jake waited for her to punch the end button before he spoke. “What happened to Dad? Is he okay?”

  She tapped some keys before looking at him. “Dad started running a high fever. Mom called Doc Grady, and he met them at the hospital. Dad’s in ICU. I’m the only one going back.”

  “Like hell!” Jake stormed to the window.

  “I’m checking flights while you have your tantrum. Dad was emphatic you stay here.”

  “It’s the fever talking. He’d want both of us there.” Jake’s stomach knotted with fear and resentment made worse by jet lag and his lack of sleep.

  “No. Mom said under no conditions are you to come home while this mess is going down. It’s up to you to fulfill Dad’s promise.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Outside a lawn mower started. His dad was dying and somebody was cutting grass. He squeezed his head. Life went on. He plopped into an ancient recliner.

  “You can’t go, Jake.”

  “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “If Dad gets worse, I’ll book you a flight myself without telling anyone.”

  They had always looked out for one another. “Dad’s going to pull out of this.”

  Kelly nodded. “Let me run your addresses and get my flights. Then I’ll pack.”

  His dad would be all right. He would. Kelly and their mother would see to it. Without him. At times, the damned Solomon Honor System sucked.

  Taylor hated cemeteries in general, and the complete silence surrounding Randy’s grave haunted her. Not one chirp
from a sparrow or one call from a gull. Not one butterfly. Not one breath of breeze.

  She laid the stems of red carnations, white gladiolas, and blue asters, still in their waxy green wrapper, across Randy’s flat granite headstone and rubbed her arms to ward off the heebie-jeebies. Worse than the silence was the location. The cemetery was inland, with no view of the bay he loved. He would never have agreed to this desolate plot of earth. Taylor’s mother had never approved of his lifestyle and must have chosen the spot out of spite.

  She’d planned to sit and talk to him, show him the flowers. Tell him she followed his coordinates, planned to dig for the treasure he wrote about. But Randy wasn’t here. She stayed only long enough to touch his gravestone and pull the grass from its edges. Her heart said she’d never return, so she said a short prayer before leaving.

  “Love you, Uncle Randy. Can you even hear me in this place?”

  She drove north to the old fishing pier where police discovered his body. She owed Randy the honor of seeing where he died, but she didn’t look forward to the visit. She’d steeled herself against the horror since learning of his death.

  Randy loved saltwater. Ocean, gulf, bay—as long as it was open water and not a lake or river, he was happy. He sold his sportfisher, Renegade, not long before his decline began. After he started going downhill, she wondered if he’d known something was wrong earlier than the symptoms began. With no boat, he’d contented himself with beaches and piers.

  She counted to the third pier after the picnic area—the one her mother told her—and parked on the shoulder with her flashers on. Her fears vanished. This was Randy’s kind of place. If he had to die, at least it happened in the water he loved.

  On a knoll across the road from the pier, a sunny yellow and white house overlooked the scene, completely out of sync with death. The private pier had a locked gate about ten feet from the narrow road to secure access from the land side. The center section was washed out, but the end, a T-head, stood about a hundred yards into Copano Bay.

  The dilapidated pier looked more like death, yet she felt Randy’s presence more here than at the cemetery and wished she’d brought the flowers to scatter on the water. No worries. She shivered at the sound of his voice in her mind, but it banished her fear.

  Taylor got out of the car and took in the area around the pier to ground herself before stepping onto the salt-encrusted boards. The tide was in, and the water lapping against the rocks a few feet below obscured the beach from her view. Thousands of sun diamonds sparkled on the blue-green water, and puffs of bright white clouds floated here and there leaving shadows across the bay. She tested the gate before leaning against it and resting her chin on her hands. If Randy’s spirit hung around, it would be somewhere on the bay he loved.

  Closing her eyes, she let the breeze blow in her face and the memories play in her mind. Her heart ached knowing she’d never again see Randy’s crooked grin or hear his deadpan delivery of a really dumb joke. The little things. His salute after he’d pinned on her shoulder boards. The stories about his Coast Guard friends—the Compass Points. What good care he’d taken of his Solomon’s Compass belt. The belt was the only thing she wanted from his house.

  Below her, waves lapped against slick rocks in the soothing ebb and flow lullaby of the sea. “Talk to me, Uncle Randy. Coastie to Coastie. I’m listening.”

  After several minutes the kinks in her stomach relaxed. She took a deep breath of salty air. A year had passed since Randy’s death, and while she didn’t like it any better, she finally accepted he was gone.

  The past few years, Randy had declined from an active older man, healthy both mentally and physically, into a state of paranoid dementia. In every phone call, every email, he talked about someone trying to kill him. In his last email, he said the next time she came to visit they’d go treasure hunting. He listed a set of map coordinates. Map coordinates! From someone with dementia. He said the treasure would be their secret—his instructions to tell no one of his hidden buried treasure, a sad product of his decaying mind.

  She left the pier and turned at the next street to go back to the highway. A cold chill ran up her spine. What the hell? At the second street, she turned left and stopped in front of the third house on the right—209 Amberjack. Will Knox’s house.

  In the daylight, she saw recently cut grass and neatly trimmed hedges. Begonias and flowers she didn’t recognize bloomed everywhere. She hadn’t realized he lived so close to where Randy died.

  Taylor squeezed her head in her hands. Something didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t identify what felt off. What did it mean that Randy buried his supposed treasure in Will’s backyard and chose a tiny beach so far from his home, yet so close to Will’s, to spend what turned out to be his last evening?

  After concentrating a few minutes, she was left with nothing. It would come to her. She just needed to give it time.

  On her way back to Randy’s, mesquite smoke coming from a large pit next to a ramshackle building made her mouth water. She parked in a crowded lot anchored by a red neon BBQ sign. Not much tasted better than Texas barbeque—in Charleston she got sweet pork. She stood in line, then took her food to a counter against the wall. The smoked brisket melted in her mouth. If she hadn’t been here to attend to Randy’s affairs, she would gain ten pounds by binging on her favorite foods. But on this trip, she would work off the extra calories and more.

  After dumping her trash, she fished out her keys. With them in one hand and her iced tea in the other, she threaded through a knot of people at the door. One man turned as she passed, his fingers raking her keys to the floor.

  “Sorry. I’ll grab them.” The streets of New York came alive with his voice. Not just New York, but Brooklyn. Like Mark’s voice.

  The man rose up, holding out her keys with a smile. “Here you go, good as new. I dusted them off.” He gave them a shake, his mischievous green eyes sparkling under shaggy silver hair. It would be impossible to stay upset at him.

  She could see the taxis, hear the horns, and smell the exhaust just by listening to his voice. And she could see Mark’s face. She blinked to make it go away.

  This man was no Mark Vitulli. He was older, maybe by ten or fifteen years. It was difficult to guess. His tanned, trim body belied his rugged face and silver hair.

  She laughed in spite of herself and took her keys. “Thanks.”

  The word got tangled up, and she spat it out before fleeing to the safety of her car. His fingers had brushed her wrist, making her mouth go dry and her pulse quicken. Her belly still fluttered. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and it wasn’t because his voice was like Mark’s. Something inside her responded to him as if he’d always been a part of her life. It scared the crap out of her, and she didn’t even know his name

  She shook her head to rid it of such crazy thoughts. He probably had a wife, three kids, and a dog. And she had work to do.

  Jake’s morning hadn’t gone well. When Kelly left for the airport, he’d followed her to the highway and turned in the opposite direction to get an eyes-on of Will Knox’s house in the daylight. Clean and neat, like Copano Boat Works. A lot of landscaping.

  The pier was next, and he turned onto the shore road. The door of a silver Chevrolet parked at the pier opened, and Taylor Campbell emerged.

  Although he’d planned to stop, his orders were to watch and not become involved until the time was right. He noted her new plate number, kept driving, and stopped at a picnic area several hundred yards away. He pulled out his binoculars.

  Clearly grieving for her uncle, Taylor reminded him of a lost kitten. He wanted to console her. Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted to touch her, look into her eyes and tell her he would slay the monster. But he couldn’t. Jake was obligated to the mission. The time would come for him to tell her the story of the Compass Points, the almost certainty that Rankin’s death was not accidental. That her own life was at risk. He would follow his dad’s plan. And allow Taylor another day or two of fre
edom from the knowledge that some sick bastard murdered her uncle in cold blood.

  When Taylor returned to her car, he stowed the binoculars and put the car in drive. She drove to Will Knox’s house and stopped. Then straight back to the pier. She made the connection, but how did she know where Knox lived? He needed to find out. And find out what it meant.

  She continued toward Rankin’s but stopped at a barbeque place. He waited for several minutes. Two other people went inside after she did and came out carrying bags, so he ventured inside through a haze of wood smoke.

  The place was packed, but he spotted her right away, eating alone at a counter. He understood eating alone, and he didn’t wish that for her, but he couldn’t meet her yet. On a professional level, he needed to see if anyone appeared interested in her. Or himself. Personally, he needed more emotional distance after watching her escape death just hours earlier.

  He waited near the door, blending into group after group that came and went. After several minutes, she picked up her tray, and he moved to the corner of the entrance area next to the door.

  Seconds later one group of people entered just as another group was leaving. He worked his way through them. Taylor stood two feet away. He turned toward her. Despite knowing it was too early, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch her, pulling her keys from her fingers as an excuse.

  Her touch propelled a burst of heat through his body. To keep his emotions at bay, he ducked to retrieve her keys and get himself under control. From Kelly’s photos, he hadn’t been able to see the way freckles covered her skin or the way her hair curled around her ear. Or maybe it was the Doc T-shirt. He was near enough to touch her, and his mission changed to personal in a heartbeat.

  Jake waited for Taylor to reach her car before he left the restaurant. After their encounter, she drove straight to Rankin’s. Now she pulled into the driveway and got out. Jake put his car in gear and drove off.