The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  “But would she please watch the farm for him, forward his mail, little things like that? He'd be glad to pay her,” Cavanaugh said.

  “After all, it was the least she could do,” Rutherford added.

  “So you get the picture?” Jamie asked.

  “Classic recruitment,” Rutherford concluded.

  “Almost makes me proud of him,” Cavanaugh said bitterly. “The guy's a natural.”

  “Does she realize it was all a set-up?” Rutherford asked Jamie. “Duran scouted the West Liberty area, spotted her, found out she was single, followed her, learned her habits, and then paid those three guys to pretend to attack her.”

  “She hasn't the faintest idea.”

  “Nice to be innocent,” Cavanaugh said.

  “I wrote down the Miami address where she forwards the mail.” Jamie handed Rutherford a piece of paper.

  “And from where a drug courier probably forwarded the mail to Colombia,” Rutherford said. “The question is, where is Duran's mail being forwarded now.” He pulled out his cell phone, pressed numbers, and began reading the address to someone.

  “The woman says Duran came back here yesterday,” Jamie said. “He told her he needed to leave something for a friend.”

  Cavanaugh stared up the lane toward the building next to the barn. For several moments, he didn't seem to breathe.

  17

  Brockman's legs and arms were racked with pain, his left calf muscle feeling torn, his right rotator cuff about to snap. The pain combined with his nausea and the heat from the unshielded lamps made him sweat so much that his shirt and suit coat were drenched. The strap that attached his neck to the spine of the flex machine made him feel increasingly strangled. The glaring lights hurt his eyes, but no matter how often he blinked, he couldn't get rid of the spots that the lights seared into his vision.

  Abruptly, the spots turned gray.

  They swirled and wavered.

  Ali slapped both cheeks with his leather gloves. “Wake up, Gerald! It's not polite to pass out when you've got company. Conversation, Gerald. That's what a guest wants. Stimulation. What I wouldn't give for an intelligent discussion about . . . oh . . . say . . . Rome four years ago. That Russian oil tycoon who was assassinated. Now that would be interesting.”

  Despite how sick Brockman felt, he desperately needed water to soothe his parched lips, to clear the taste of bile from his mouth.

  “I bet I can read your mind. I bet you're thirsty. Right, Gerald?”

  Brockman closed his eyes.

  Ali peeled their lids upward. “Thirsty?”

  Hang tough, Brockman thought. Take it a moment at a time. Hope for somebody to break in and rescue me. Make Ali believe I'd rather die than tell him anything.

  But what if it comes to that? I might in fact die.

  Stop thinking like that.

  Ali held up a pitcher filled with water and ice cubes. He swirled the cubes, making them clink against the pitcher. On the outside, moisture beaded, trickling down like rain on a window.

  “Gerald, I'm getting tired of asking if you're thirsty.”

  Brockman tried to nod, but the straps kept his head in place. “Yes.” His voice reminded him of the sound of a boot breaking crusted mud.

  “That's all you needed to say.” Ali poured ice cubes and water into a glass, inserted a straw, and raised it to Brockman's lips. “Easy. Only a little at a time. You don't want to get sick.”

  Brockman sucked on the straw, feeling the delicious, cold water fill his mouth. Ali took the glass away as Brockman swallowed and ran his wet tongue over his crusted lips. He had thought that the crust was from dried bile. But now he tasted the copper of blood.

  Ali dipped a cloth into a basin of water. He twisted the excess from it and pressed the cloth against Brockman's forehead. He stroked Brockman's cheeks with it. The cloth felt wonderfully cool.

  “The Russian, Gerald. Tell me about the Russian. This doesn't need to be difficult. The Russian was long ago. Four years ago. I don't want you to talk about what's happening now. Four years ago. It's safe to talk about that. It's safe to talk about the Russian.”

  Through his groggy, nausea-and-pain-filled thoughts, Brockman tried to decide what to do. Stay silent; suffer more pain. Or try to string Ali along. Seem to give him information but not really tell him anything. Stop him from . . .

  “Have more water, Gerald.” Ali lifted the glass, extending the straw.

  Brockman opened his mouth. At once, Ali shoved the rag into it, then yanked the handles on the flex machine, thrusting Brockman's legs up, propelling his arms inward.

  Brockman's rotator cuff ripped. He could hear it give, like a zipper being yanked open. In the blazing lights, his mind went black. Fire filled his throat. He fought to breathe.

  Coughing. Mouth open. Rag gone.

  Water streaming over his head. Dripping. Cooling.

  Shadows.

  “Have more water, Gerald.”

  Brockman blearily opened his eyes and saw that Ali had turned off most of the lamps. The one that stayed lit had its shade adjusted properly, shielding the bulb's glare. His parched, burned skin felt refreshingly cool.

  Ali took away the basin, part of the contents of which he had poured over Brockman's head. Again, Ali extended the glass and the straw. Desperately thirsty, Brockman studied it, afraid that, when he opened his mouth, Ali would again yank away the straw and shove the rag between his lips. He was conscious of his wet hair clinging to his scalp.

  “Drink, Gerald.”

  Brockman opened his mouth and sucked on the straw. He rinsed bile from his tongue. He spit it out, unable to project it far, some of it landing on his pants. He sucked more water, swirling it, swallowing, purifying his throat.

  “I promise to protect you from Carl Duran,” Ali said.

  “He kind of seems in control, don't you think?” Brockman murmured. “All the protectors who've already died. Nobody could protect them.”

  The shadows in the room were luxurious. He wanted to close his eyes and—

  “I can fix it so you seem to disappear, Gerald. He'd never be able to find you.”

  Disoriented, Brockman realized that Ali had managed to engage him in a conversation, a sin of being interrogated that had to be avoided at all cost.

  At all cost? Brockman thought groggily. Look at what it's already cost me. After the last three years, do I care anymore? Do I want to keep living like this?

  He licked his coppery tasting lips. “What if . . .”

  Ali waited.

  “What if he's not the one I'm afraid of?” Brockman asked.

  “Then who are you afraid of?”

  “All of you. Need more water.”

  Ali extended the straw.

  Brockman sipped.

  Ali prompted him. “Afraid of all of us?”

  “Protectors. Afraid of what you'll do if you find out.”

  Ali set down the glass and raised an electrical box with a switch on it and numerous plugs attached to it. When he flicked the switch, the room blazed again. All the lamps were attached to the box, all the bulbs suddenly glaring.

  “No.” Brockman groaned. The heat swept over him.

  From the shadows behind the glare, Ali asked, “What are you afraid we'll find out?”

  “Suppose I did something.”

  “Something?”

  “Sleepy. Feel sleepy.”

  “Don't worry, Gerald. The glare and the heat of the lights will keep you awake. What did you do?”

  “How can you protect me from . . .”

  “Stay awake, Gerald, or I might need to tear your other rotator cuff. Protect you from what?”

  “Keep me from being punished.”

  “A deal, Gerald? Is that what you're asking me to make with you? A promise to protect you from Carl Duran and from your fellow protectors?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I promise you this. You tell me what I want to hear, and I'll look after you as if you're my closest friend.
I'll do everything in my power to get you out of whatever trouble you're in.”

  “It'd be a . . .”

  “Be a what, Gerald?”

  “Relief. The bastard held it over me for so long.”

  “Tell me,” Ali said.

  18

  The building was made of weathered boards. It was twenty-feet-square, single-level, with a dusty window on two sides and a black stovepipe protruding from its sloped roof. The door was blank wood. On leashes, two dogs sniffed at it.

  “They don't seem interested,” one of their handlers said.

  “The same as the other buildings. So far, no indication of explosives,” the second handler told Cavanaugh.

  Cavanaugh looked around—at men coming in and out of the farmhouse, whose door they'd rammed in; at other men searching the barn, whose padlock they'd cut.

  “No indication of radiation, either,” a man said, walking over with a Geiger counter. “A dirty bomb or anything like that.”

  “Or smallpox or anthrax,” another man said. He held a compact device programmed to identify the DNA of selected bacteria and viruses. His hands were covered with latex gloves.

  “And the place tests negative for stashes of drugs,” Rutherford said, joining them.

  A man with bolt cutters indicated the building's locked door. “Shall I do the honors?”

  Cavanaugh walked to where a window provided an inside view of the door. Through the dusty glass, he didn't see any sign of a booby trap, but even though trained dogs had failed to indicate that they smelled explosives, he needed to be sure.

  Reaching into a windbreaker, he pulled out a twist tie. “Free the lock,” he told the man with the bolt cutters.

  When the lock fell to the ground, Cavanaugh eased the door open a quarter inch, knelt, inserted the twist tie through the narrow gap, and slowly raised the pliant strip from the ground, alert for any sign of resistance from a wire attached to a detonator. While Jamie aimed her flashlight, searching for a reflection off a wire, Cavanaugh drew the twist tie along the entire door.

  “Anybody care to step back?” he asked the group.

  They thought about it.

  “Wouldn't hurt to crouch behind that car,” one of the dog handlers said.

  “John, why don't you and Jamie go with them?” Cavanaugh asked.

  What Jamie did instead was cautiously open the door.

  Sunlight pierced shadows. Dust on the floor showed the footprints of someone who'd recently gone in and out. The marks were large, presumably a man's. They led past a metal stove that the old man had used for burning wood in the winter. They passed a dusty anvil and a table of equally dusty forging tools. Cavanaugh had worked with them so often that, even after many years, he recognized them as the old man's, especially the battered anvil. The footprints veered around a waist-high metal container that had a propane tank attached to it: the old man's forge. They led to another dusty table, upon which an envelope was set against a small wooden box.

  The box was made of oak so polished that it reflected Cavanaugh's flashlight.

  The box was open. It was lined with green felt into which was nestled the most beautiful knife Cavanaugh had ever seen.

  Hey, he warned himself, pay attention. He and Jamie looked for wires stretched across the shadowy floor. As Cavanaugh approached the far table, he stayed clear of the footprints, preserving them as evidence. But the closer he came, the more he found it difficult to take his eyes from the envelope and the contents of the box. At last, he stopped before them.

  The envelope had handwriting on it. Neat, solid strokes. In black ink.

  To Aaron

  “Looks like you've got a pen pal,” Rutherford said.

  “It's Carl's handwriting.” Trying to ignore the beckoning knife, Cavanaugh reached for the envelope but then hesitated. Turning toward the door, he saw one of the technicians peering in. “You'd better check this.”

  The technician followed the trail Cavanaugh and Jamie had made in the dust. He moved his detector over the envelope and the knife. “No pathogens. At least, none that this device is programmed for.”

  “Got any more gloves?”

  The technician reached into a jacket pocket and gave him a pair.

  After putting them on, Cavanaugh picked up the envelope and saw that it was sealed. He tore it open, removed a sheet of paper, and cautiously unfolded it. The handwritten message had the same neat, solid strokes. It was dated one day earlier.

  Aaron, Do you ever miss Lance? I used to lie awake nights wishing that old bastard was my father and you were my brother. All the adventures you and I had. Old buddy, you need to be reminded of the military virtues. Loyalty, courage, honor, and sacrifice. Thanks to them, we were able to fight our way out of a lot of trouble because we knew we could depend on one another.

  Loyalty. That's the greatest virtue. And Aaron, as I told you on the radio, you weren't a good enough friend. You should have backed me up when I got fired. I felt like you'd cut my parachute lines. I know you thought I killed that stalker to impress that twat singer. The truth is, I did it to impress YOU. I expected you to say, “Damned good job, man. You sure showed that piece of shit.” Instead, you let me get fired. Okay, I made a mistake. But a true friend doesn't turn against another friend just because of a mistake. A friendship's supposed to be stronger than that. You can't choose your parents, but you CAN choose a friend.

  Trust. That's what a friendship's about. Being able to count on somebody no matter what. Well, buddy, I sure found out I couldn't count on YOU. None of this would have happened otherwise. I hope you're satisfied. Of course, you were supposed to be in a grave in Wyoming and not know any of this. You always could rise to a challenge. Not that it matters—two days from now, not even you will be able to find me. Just to show I'm big enough to stop hating you, here's a present. I think it's the best knife I ever made.

  Carl

  Cavanaugh showed the letter to the group.

  “So now he's justifying what he's done?” Rutherford asked. “This doesn't feel right.”

  “And what's the significance of the knife?” Jamie wondered. “It's beautiful, I admit. The handle. Is it covered with . . .”

  “Gold quartz,” Cavanaugh said.

  “And those red dots. They look like . . .”

  “Rubies embedded in gold rivets,” Cavanaugh said.

  The slender knife was eleven inches long, five inches of which were the amazing handle.

  Cavanaugh couldn't take his gaze off it.

  “Michael Price,” he finally said.

  “I don't understand.”

  “Old San Francisco.” Cavanaugh kept staring at the knife. Then he felt that he was being stared at. Breaking his concentration, he looked up at Jamie and Rutherford, who watched him, puzzled.

  “Who's Michael Price?” Jamie asked.

  19

  Old San Francisco. Eighteen forty-eight.

  The village had a population of about four hundred people when gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill a hundred miles away. Within a year, two hundred thousand miners passed through San Francisco on their way to the gold fields. The town was so undeveloped that necessities had to be brought in by ship.

  Knives were some of those necessities. In the east, most communities had blacksmiths who could forge crude blades, but quality knives needed to be imported from manufacturers in England. Suddenly, in San Francisco, a market developed for thousands of knives, dependable ones, blades that could be trusted to hold an edge while they pried nuggets from a stream and protected those nuggets from thieves.

  A shipment of knives took a year to travel from England to San Francisco. Seizing the opportunity, knife makers began setting up forges and charging top dollar. Soon a distinctive style and a high level of expertise became common. One of those knife makers was Michael Price, who came to San Francisco in the mid 1850s and whose clients were some of the richest, most powerful men in the community.

  Judges, bankers, merchants, and real-estate moguls
were wealthy beyond their fantasies. To show it, they dressed extravagantly, including the knives they carried for self-defense. Michael Price's elegant designs were characterized by a handle made of gold, diamonds, mother of pearl, and other precious materials. The blade was enclosed in an elaborately engraved silver sheath attached prominently to a dress belt. Customers vied with each other to have the most beautiful, subtle, and yet ostentatious knife.

  “They're proof that knives can be works of art,” Cavanaugh said. “Knife collectors search for them. Recently, a Michael Price dagger sold at auction for almost a hundred thousand dollars. One way master blade smiths prove their skill is by replicating a Michael Price knife.”

  Cavanaugh pointed toward the knife in the box. “Carl did it flawlessly. At the back of the handle, you see that screw? If you detach it, you can take the handle apart and spread it out in small pieces: the grip, the bands that hold it onto the tang, the various fittings that form the guard. Each of those tiny parts is perfectly crafted.”

  As if hypnotized, Jamie reached for it.

  Cavanaugh stopped her. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “The blade should be gleaming. It should have a satin polish. But it doesn't. Its finish is dull.”

  Still wanting to touch the enticing knife, Jamie said, “Sure. It has dust on it.”

  “After a day?” Cavanaugh said. “There wouldn't be that much dust. No, Carl put something on it. Probably the handle, also. I'm betting it's some kind of topical poison, something that the pathogen detectors haven't been programmed for. You wouldn't need to cut yourself. Skin contact would be enough. You'd probably die instantly.”

  Jamie jerked her hand away. “Playing with us. Showing how smart he is. He's pissed at being rejected, and he's getting back at everybody.”

  Cavanaugh re-read the letter. “He says that in two days he's going to disappear. The message is dated a day ago. So tomorrow, something's going to happen.”