Move to Strike

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘I’m almost there. I’ll pick you up in five. And Nora, you don’t think anybody . . . ?’

  ‘The fog is so thick, David, and getting thicker. No one has seen me. I am sure of it.’

  David’s next call was to Joe, whose first utterance went something like: ‘You fucking idiot. Where the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m in Chatham. I found Nora. I am about to pick her up.’ David assumed Joe would know about Nora by now, and he was right.

  ‘Thank Christ. Sara is beside herself.’

  Sara, thought David, the guilt now rushing through him. But Joe was not going to let him go so easily.

  ‘You took my fucking gun.’

  ‘I didn’t take it, Joe. I borrowed it.

  ‘Jesus Christ, David, you need to listen to me. You have to grab Nora and go hide somewhere safe.’

  ‘Nora found McCall.’

  ‘What?’ said Joe.

  ‘McCall is staying at the Chatham Bars Inn. I’m going to pick up Nora and head over there now. You can meet us in the lobby.’

  He could almost hear Joe sigh with relief.

  ‘Okay. Just stay put until we get there. And whatever you do, don’t touch that freaking gun. We’re only fifteen minutes away.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ lied David, before hanging up the phone.

  ‘Get in,’ he said, pushing the passenger side door open without coming to a stop. He had almost forgotten that Joe’s gun was still on the seat, but had managed to put it into the glove box just as he pulled up in front of the convenience store.

  Nora moved quickly. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ she said. ‘I should never have left without discussing it with you first.’

  David took a breath. ‘It’s okay. None of us knew this would happen so fast.’

  Nora nodded. ‘I called Sara. She told me about Ms de Castro.’

  And that was when David took his first real look at the woman he thought of as his second mother – and saw that the normally pink-skinned Nora was now an ashen shade of grey.

  ‘He’s a monster, Nora.’

  ‘But we will stop him, lad.’

  ‘No, Nora, there is no “we”,’ he said, taking a sharp left onto Shore Road. ‘As soon as we get to the inn, I am leaving you with McCall.’

  ‘But you have to wait for back-up, David. Sara said Joe was only moments away and Sara and Arthur and Miss Carmichael are already in Hyannis. The helicopter landed almost twenty minutes ago, so they can’t be more than . . .’

  ‘Sara is coming here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she hesitated, meeting his eye. ‘I thought you knew. She went to see Miss Carmichael who helped arrange a State Police transport. Sara told her everything, and now she is on board and ready to issue a warrant for Doctor Logan’s arrest.’

  ‘Shit,’ David said, banging his fist on the steering wheel as the outline of the picturesque Chatham Bars Inn became visible in the opaque wisps of fog.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said an obviously confused Nora. ‘I thought that was what we wanted.’

  ‘Yes, I mean no, I mean . . .’ He caught his breath as he swung the car into the inn’s circular gravel drive. ‘I mean, I want that bastard behind bars, Nora, but not like this. Don’t you see, the more people who are here the more targets he has to fire at. The man is a sharpshooter, for God’s sake, and all this activity . . . he is bound to know we are here, which means we have lost our element of surprise.’

  ‘But we don’t even know where he is staying,’ Nora argued, as David shoved open his driver’s side door, and Nora unbuckled her seat belt to do the same.

  ‘That is where his mother comes in, Nora. She wouldn’t have come here without knowing where to find him.’

  ‘You think she knows where he stores his guns?’ she asked, trying to keep up with David as he bounded up the front steps.

  ‘It’s the only hope we’ve got.’

  *

  David pushed the nervous manager aside. It had taken him a good five minutes to persuade him to escort them to Deirdre McCall’s room and now the tall, thin hotel executive was tapping on the door to the second-floor room like a timid little bird.

  ‘Ms McCall,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, until David moved in front of him and began banging on the door with his fist.

  ‘Ms McCall, my name is David Cavanaugh and I am the attorney who represents your grandchildren. We believe your life is in danger and we have arranged for your protection. The police are on their way, Miss McCall, and . . .’

  But nothing, not a sound – and when David pressed his ear against the door he could not detect any movement inside.

  ‘Open it,’ he said to the manager.

  For once the man did not hesitate, simply put the golden key into the wide old-fashioned lock and turned.

  They were in her room in seconds, the classic New England décor extending from the bedroom to the white-tiled bathroom beyond. Deirdre McCall had no luggage, merely an overnight bag with the bare essentials Tracey Scabo had left for her in that hospital room over two weeks ago. The bed had been slept in but the covers had been carefully replaced. The bathroom was empty bar a single toothbrush and tube of toothpaste left in a glass on the large oval sink by the window.

  ‘Shit,’ said David.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Nora.

  But David did not answer. He was already back in the bedroom, the eerie white light seeping through the balcony doors like moonlight through smoke. He began by lifting up McCall’s things and scanning her room for anything that might tell him where her son might be. And then he saw it – the small envelope on the bedside table. It was a letter addressed to Jason Nagol, the postmark stamped in an era long gone. He grabbed the envelope and took two sheets of yellowed realty letterhead from within it, laying them flat on the bed.

  ‘What is it, lad?’ Nora asked, moving towards him.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, folding the papers quickly and jamming them into his right breast shirt pocket. ‘You need to stay here in case McCall returns,’ he said, before heading towards the door.

  Nora was shaking her head. ‘No, David. You cannot do this alone.’

  But he was not stopping.

  ‘You know where he is, don’t you?’ she said, her voice quivering with fear.

  And then, as if forgetting something important, he turned and moved back into the room before grabbing his beloved secretary quickly and holding her in a firm and loving embrace.

  ‘I’m going to be okay, Nora,’ he said and, after a pause, felt her give him the slightest of nods as her tears fell softly on his right shoulder.

  ‘There is nothing I can say?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  She took a breath as she pulled back and placed her hands firmly on his shoulders, looking for all the world like a mother now sending her only son off to war. ‘Be careful,’ she said, perhaps knowing there was nothing else she could say.

  And he kissed her gently on the cheek, before bounding out the door.

  ‘Lieutenant Mannix, my name is Captain Mac Burns from the Chatham Police.’ Joe took his hand as they both headed towards the curved front steps of the Chatham Bars Inn. The fog had slowed traffic to a standstill, which meant Joe’s trip had taken longer than expected – and so he was grateful to see the local cops waiting for him when he and Frank arrived.

  ‘You get your man down from Provincetown?’

  During the drive south, Joe had had several discussions with the local cops, including asking them to identify the best shooter they had – and they had come up with a young rookie from Provincetown by the name of Kevin Molis who, according to Captain Burns, ‘could shoot a flea off of a dog from a hundred yards away’.

  ‘Officer Molis,’ said Burns as he turned to a young man, one of several uniforms now coming up the stairs behind them.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the young policeman.

  ‘This is Lieutenant Mannix from Boston.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, sir,�
� said the blue-eyed Molis, taking Joe’s hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ said Joe, as they reached the wide front glass doors. ‘Captain Burns here tells me you know a thing or two about hitting a target.’

  ‘Yes, sir. My father was an artillery captain in the army, sir. I shot my first tin can at age three.’

  ‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘Because the target I got in mind is slightly bigger than your average can of soup. I gather this fog is a problem,’ he added, turning his head slightly to look back towards the ocean behind him.

  ‘Not for me, sir,’ returned Molis. ‘I once shot two mountain lions and a cougar in a blizzard where visibility was close to zero. There’s more to finding your target than actually seeing it, Lieutenant,’ he added.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Joe, before turning towards the hotel once again and striding quickly into the lobby.

  ‘Joe,’ said Sara, rushing across the hotel lobby to meet him, the very sight of all these police easing her fears – just a little.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ he asked, taking her hand softly before letting it go once again.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she managed. ‘But we have a problem.’

  ‘Where’s your idiot fiancé?’ he asked, as if reading her mind.

  ‘He’s gone,’ piped in Nora, who, together with Arthur and Amanda Carmichael, was moving forward to join their little group. ‘To find Doctor Logan.’

  Sara read the frustration in Joe’s eyes.

  ‘It gets worse, Joe,’ she said.

  ‘How so?’ he asked.

  ‘Nora thinks he knows where Logan is.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘They found this in Deirdre McCall’s room.’

  Joe looked at the empty envelope, before meeting Sara’s eye and nodding in understanding. He handed McKay the envelope and turned towards Officer Molis once again.

  ‘What do you need, Lieutenant?’ said Molis, obviously reading Mannix’s stare.

  ‘I need you to load up, Officer. It’s time to get things done.’

  ‘Lieutenant,’ said Amanda Carmichael, falling into step beside Joe, who had moved back to address the police officers behind him. ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘I’m planning to deal with this situation, Miss Carmichael – to apprehend the asshole who murdered his wife.’ He didn’t mean to sound terse, but this woman’s ambitions had been part of the problem from the get-go.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ she said again, this time grabbing his elbow and forcing him to face her. ‘You have to be sure about this,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper, ‘because if you aren’t, this could be a major setback for the reputation of law enforcement in Massachusetts as a whole. Jeffrey Logan is a national institution, for God’s sake.’

  Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Jeffrey Logan belongs in a fucking institution, Miss Carmichael, and I couldn’t give a crap if the masses think he is Christ reincarnated. Now you can either make the decision to be of use to us, or sit in that fucking corner, with a uniform by your side –’ Joe pointed at some miniature Georgian furniture in the lobby’s recess, ‘– until I decide I am ready to cut you loose.’

  Joe waited, wondering if Carmichael was going to sit on the fence of procrastination for the sake of personal advancement, or jump off said fence to do her fucking job the way it was supposed to be done.

  ‘Do you know where Logan is?’ she asked after a pause.

  And, gratefully, Joe sensed she was getting ready to jump. ‘There was an envelope left in the mother’s room. Cavanaugh took its contents but the envelope is marked with the insignia of a local realtor.’

  ‘And this realtor can track Logan down?’

  ‘McKay is working on it,’ he said.

  Carmichael nodded.

  ‘Cavanaugh has gone after him,’ she said after a pause, and Joe could have sworn he detected a hint of trepidation in her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he armed?’

  ‘He stole my gun.’

  She nodded once again. ‘Good,’ she said, before releasing his arm and stepping back so that Joe might do his job. ‘Good.’

  David was on a family vacation at Sandy Hook when he first heard it, that paradoxical echo of peace and power. His father had put it to his ear. It was one of those large spiral conch shells that were all rough and barnacled on the outside but smooth and shiny within.

  He heard that same sound now – the whoosh of the waves rolling onto the shore – but this time it was caused by the licking of the sea beyond the empty residence. Logan had left the door unlocked, as if he had been expecting visitors – which in effect, he had.

  The cottage was a neatly arranged two-bedroom bungalow, tastefully decorated in what could only be described as Cape Cod chic. The beds were made and the kitchen clean but the fresh, nutty scent of coffee hung warm and inviting in the air. The shutters were closed as was the door that led to the garage, a high-security double lock making it impossible for David to seek out Katherine’s car.

  With Joe’s .40 Glock by his side, David moved towards the back of the living room, to the whitewashed bi-fold doors now covered with canvas roman blinds. He pulled on the cords, lifting the blinds to their extremities, revealing the white sandy beach, and every now and again, glimpses of the silver water, flat and heavy as if compressed by the low-lying cloud above it.

  He continued out onto the deck – one of those distressed white oak numbers bordered by frameless glass. And that was when he looked left, back down the beach towards the Chatham Bars Inn, and saw the lone figure standing just beyond a blue and white striped beach canopy.

  And despite the mist he knew that the man was looking directly at him. An assumption then confirmed as the man raised his right hand and waved.

  ‘No Logan,’ said the realtor, an elderly gentleman by the name of Boyce. ‘And there is no Golan or Nagol either.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Joe, now cursing into his cell. He had been praying the realtor might find evidence of Logan having leased or purchased a property in Chatham in the same year as the postmark on Deidre McCall’s envelope.

  ‘Okay, Mr Boyce,’ recovered Joe, now lifting his hands for quiet as the local cops rallied around him. ‘I need you to think a little out of the box here. To play some with those letters – L.O.G.A.N. – like working out an anagram, do you see? If the letter was sent out in the year we discussed, it may have been giving some sort of confirmation of purchase or rental agreement in another name. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Boyce, who was obviously anxious to help. And Joe waited while the realtor flipped through what must have been some very old property documents, the rustling of paper now crackling clear and crisp down the line.

  ‘Wait!’ said Boyce after a moment. ‘No, that won’t work.’

  ‘What won’t work?’ asked Joe, his heart skipping a beat.

  ‘Well, there is something here, but the name has an apostrophe and that might not be what you are after.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Joe, stealing a glance at Frank.

  ‘There is lovely seaside cottage on Shore Road. It was bought during the year in question at a very good price. These days those waterfront properties go for a small fortune, but back then you could pick one up for . . .’

  ‘What’s the name of the owner, Mr Boyce?’ interrupted Joe.

  ‘A Mr O’Glan,’ said Boyce. ‘But as I said, it has an apostrophe and . . .’

  ‘And did this Mr O’Glan give a first name, Mr Boyce? And if he did, does it by any chance happen to start with the letter “J”?’

  ‘Why yes, it does. The Christian name given here is Jeremy. Does that make any difference, Lieutenant?’

  Joe allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

  ‘I believe it does, Mr Boyce,’ he said, knowing that at last they had found him.

  ‘I suppose this is where I should ask, what took you so long?’

  Jeffrey Logan was standing in the middle of the beach, his right hand holding a small silver pistol, his lef
t cradling one of the most high-tech rifles David had ever seen.

  David approached from his right, knowing that, despite the fog, the emptiness of this stretch of sand in August was no coincidence. Joe must be securing a perimeter, in the hope of finding Logan, and preventing his escape.

  ‘You’ve been expecting me,’ said David, lifting his own weapon – a gesture which resulted in Logan’s face breaking into a smile.

  ‘Seriously, David.’ He laughed. ‘You don’t really think that pathetic piece of tin is any match for these two superior pieces of weaponry.’ He lifted both his hands. ‘Not that you could tell the difference. From what I know of you, my friend, you don’t even have the balls to wear a wedding ring, let alone brandish a gun.’

  David felt his finger slide slowly towards the trigger.

  ‘Has Sara dropped that baby yet, by the way? Goodness me, the last time I saw her she really did look ready to pop. And you have been working her so hard, you slave driver! I mean, if there is anything wrong with that poor child when it finally sees the light of day . . .’

  But David knew exactly what Logan was doing. ‘Listen to you,’ he said, ‘preaching the gospel according to Jeffrey Logan as if I gave a fuck. Do you actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth, Nagol?’ he asked, and Jeffrey Logan flinched, just a little . . . ‘Or is the endless flow of drivel simply a symptom of your Goddamned screwed-up psychosis.’

  ‘Drivel?’ said Logan, now starting to tense. ‘That so-called drivel has influenced an entire generation of Americans.’

  ‘Bullshit. You just repeated the obvious with an ingratiating smile on your face. You call yourself a relationship guru but the truth is, Golan –’ David was mixing it up, ‘– you are just a social misfit incapable of connecting with anyone. You’re a genetic mutant, Jeffrey, a biological mistake who should never have been born.’

  There was silence, as Logan took a breath. ‘Ah . . .’ he said, nodding in feigned congratulation. ‘I see now what you are trying to do. This is your way of drawing me out, of forcing me to act and end this thing once and for all. Is that what you want, Cavanaugh? Do you want me to shoot you, right here, right now – because if so, I am more than happy to oblige?’