“Bob!” He turned toward the swinging door Gold had gone through seconds before. He’d just reached it when the explosion nearly lifted him off his feet. He fell back into the kitchen. Dazed. An acrid smell and...Was he blind? No, the power had gone. “Cilla!”
“Everybody stay down!” bellowed Krestinski. Hudson could hear the FBI man crawling toward him. He turned back to the kitchen. Just then came the second explosion. And blackness.
Chapter 16
Todd Seaver liked blizzards, and not just because they brought him money. As a small boy growing up on the coast of Maine his favorite spot was a tiny inlet, where - at flood tide - the surf channeled itself between two thick fists of rock to pound against a sea wall. There were attached cement steps leading to a small section of sandy beach that appeared when the tide ebbed. During storms, the water hit the sea wall with such force that waves sprayed the street just beyond, and it was those times Todd enjoyed most. The game was to get as far down the sea wall steps as you could before having to retreat to escape another wave crashing against the wall, and anyone caught on the stairs. Todd never was, but another boy hadn’t been so lucky or fleet afoot, and the stairs were now locked off during storms.
He could barely see through the windshield of the truck cab as he started up Ledge Road. The swirling white swallowed his headlights, cutting them off two feet in front of his plow. Damn! The town plow had been through. Some eight inches had fallen, and it would have been fun to challenge a good sock of snow on one of the steepest roads in town with his four-wheel drive, sand-weighted truck.
Todd plowed driveways for the four vacation homes at the end of Ledge Road. He didn’t really need to keep them open during the storm. It was a weekday and he knew they’d be unoccupied. But when the storm was over, it’d just be another chore, without the excitement of the blizzard and the chance to challenge Mother Nature yet again. Three quarters of the way up - where the grade dipped back below 10% - Swallow Hill Road split off to the right. He was twenty feet from it when he saw lights from a vehicle coming out. Fast. He braked, and through the gusting sheets of white could make out the familiar light green color of the town plow as it swung toward him, heading downhill at a pace even Todd would think twice about in those conditions. He turned the wheel hard to the right. The truck skidded to a stop with the right front wheel over a ditch. Shit! What the hell was Kevin doing! He spun the wheels angrily, then, realizing he was just getting himself in more trouble, stopped and started slowly, letting the tires on solid ground gain traction. Gravity helped, and he backed out down Ledge Road, pulling over to the shoulder. He stopped the truck and got out, leaving the engine running. Ledge Road from there up had nearly nine inches, as did Swallow Hill. Then where was Kevin going? Why didn’t he plow them? Both were town roads, having been accepted before regulations set eligible grades lower than 10%. An emergency? Bartlett plows didn’t have radios. An accident? Why didn’t Kevin stop?
Todd climbed back in the cab and turned into Swallow Hill Road. He could see the other vehicle’s tracks, one fresh set in and one out. There were two houses on the road, he remembered. Carter and Mooney. No, it wasn’t Mooney any more. Hudson something, a middle aged guy from Massachusetts. Married that Indian girl, Cilla Wheaton. He’d known her in school, after his Mom moved them both to Bartlett. That house came first, about a half mile in. He wondered if he’d be able to see its house lights through the snow. He kept his eye on the side of the road for tracks. Suddenly out of the white, the dark hulk of a car. Several cars, parked at the side of the road, with white blankets covering the roof, seeping down the sides. The plow tracks ended with sprouting arms on the snowy street, the proof Kevin had turned around in the driveway.
Todd followed the tracks in and stopped. There were lights, many lights but, as Todd came even with a car sitting sideways blocking the driveway, he saw it wasn’t the cheery glow of table lamps. Fire! He got out and ran toward a remembered porch door. There was no porch; in its place were scattered timbers and a gaping hole in the building through which he could see flames.
“Fire!” he yelled, feeling a bit foolish. If there was anyone in there - and there had to be from the number of cars around - they sure as hell knew it.
“Anyone here?” The wind carried much of the sound away before it reached the house.
“Here!” The voice was muffled, a woman’s.
Without hesitation, Todd scrambled across the porch remains as though up the sea wall stairs. “Where? Keep talking!”
“Back here! Hurry! There are six of us!”
Todd went through. He was in a bedroom, or what remained of it. He heard the voice again and hurried through a living room, over scattered embers from the fireplace, to a doorless kitchen. A woman was getting to her feet. In the smoky light from fires building in the living room he could see she had a gun in her hand!
“Hey! I’m help!”
“Okay,” said the woman. “Help that man to his feet.” She pointed to a figure on its knees. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah. Just me.” He put an arm under the man’s shoulder and lifted him to unsteady feet. The woman was kneeling next to a body that lay face down with torn pants and blood oozing through. In the flickering light he saw another figure stirring just beyond, a woman. He ran to her.
“Are you alright?”
She scarcely heard him. “Hudson!” She crawled to the body on the floor.
“He’s coming around, Cilla,” said the gunwoman. So this was the girl he went to school with. “I think he looks worse than he is. He took the second blast on his rear end.” Then to Todd, “You, what’s your name?”
“Todd. What in hell happened here?”
“Grenades, probably.” Said as though it had been a thundershower. “Todd, there’s an older man in the corner. You get him outside. Carry him if you have to. John, are you okay?” This to the standing man. Todd, moving to the other end of the kitchen, saw he too had a pistol. Grenades, people with guns, what the hell had he gotten into?
“I’m all right. Help the others.” The old man’s voice was strong and turned him back.
“Where are you hurt, Hudson?” Cilla had hands under his head.
“Just my rear. Let’s get out of here.” He got up gingerly.
The man with the gun was already making his way toward the front of the house, his weapon held in front of him. He spoke over his shoulder. “Todd, did you see anyone outside?”
“Just Kevin on the town plow.”
“Wasn’t Kevin,” gritted Hudson, on his feet with an arm draped over Cilla’s shoulder. “Whoever it was didn’t put the blade down.”
“He’s gone anyway. Came by me like...”
Hudson exhaled noisily. “Todd, grab blankets from that bedroom and get yourself out of here.”
“And turn on heaters in the cars,” said Cilla. “Bob has the keys.”
“He’s at the garage,” said Hudson.
Through the nighttime veil of snow, silhouetted against flames that now enveloped the entire house came the figures escaping it; the two with guns led the way, fanning out to either side as they crunched across what used to be the enclosed porch but now was a jumble of splintered wood and broken glass. Behind them came Cilla with her arms around a limping Hudson, followed by the old man.
“Todd, over here!” The gunwoman called through the bitter wind swirling the snow. Set back further from the road, the garage had escaped the brunt of the blasts. Not so the figure lying very still, half in and half out of the doorway. “Look for car keys, Todd. He must have had them in his hand and scattered when he fell.”
He knelt carefully on the glass-strewn, icy floor to peer under the maroon Subaru wagon. The firelight caught several reflecting objects he at first thought were keys, but were pieces of broken glass, probably from the upper part of the door he’d come through. He found one set by a rear wheel.
“Mine,” said the female James Bond. “Tell Mr. Krestinski Gold needs an ambulance pronto. He’s headed for h
is cell phone.”
Temporarily abandoning his search, Todd ran to the road. “You Mr. Kristanki?” he asked the man getting out of a grey Pontiac. The man nodded. “The woman in the garage says Gold needs an ambulance pronto.”
“Already on the way. Find those keys?”
“One. Back for more.” As he passed the car in the driveway - with some of the snow brushed off he saw it was a Jeep - he could see the injured man stretched out face down on the rear seat, his legs half curled on the floor. “He all right?” he shouted through the closed window at Cilla in the driver’s seat.
She nodded gently.
It took him five minutes to locate the others, and by then he could hear the sirens of approaching vehicles. The Jeep started without difficulty, and Cilla jockeyed it out of the driveway so the ambulance could back in.
Ingalls, with blanket flapping, came over to the Jeep. Cilla rolled down the window for her. “Hudson, you go in the ambulance,” she instructed.
“No way. It’s taken me until now to get comfortable here.”
“We’ll get to the hospital at the same time,” said Carver from the right front seat.
The FBI woman shrugged and went back to Gold.
As the first fire engine appeared, Hudson propped himself up on an elbow to look at the blazing house. “There isn’t enough to save.”
Cilla was silent, staring out the window at the flames.
“Never quite felt comfortable there anyway.” Hudson shifted to his other side. “It wasn’t really our house.”
“Maybe you can wash your hands of it, but my new parka’s in there,” growled Wally from the passenger seat.
“Why?” asked Cilla softly.
“Because this was the first day I’ve worn it, that’s why!”
“Not your coat. Why this?” She placed a flat palm on the steering wheel. “They think we know something, and we don’t.”
They watched the stretcher carrying Bob Gold loaded into the ambulance. Krestinski and Ingalls conferred behind the vehicle, then Ingalls climbed in after Gold. Krestinski walked over to Cilla’s car.
“How is he?” asked Wally.
“Hasn’t regained consciousness. His left leg is in pretty bad shape. It took a piece of metal. You follow the ambulance, and I’ll follow you. How’re you feeling, Hudson?’
“I’m okay. We should get the Subaru out of the garage.”
“Firemen’ll take care of it. Here comes the ambulance.” He walked toward his own car. Cilla rolled up the window.
With flashing lights the rescue vehicle backed out of the yard, and a fire truck pulled in. There was a crash from the house as a timber let go.
“Are they going to be waiting for us at the hospital?” asked Cilla as she put the car in gear.
Hudson knew who “they” were. “There’s a difference between an attack on a lonely country road and at an in-town hospital.”
“And then what?”
“You’ll stay at my place,” said Wally. “We can defend it better at the end of the road.”
Hudson shook his head.
“You don’t agree?” asked Wally.
“I don’t have to like it.”
Chapter 17
Bob Gold’s eyes opened. For a moment they gazed blankly at the ceiling. Then they focused on the figure sitting on his bed.
“Ingalls. Am I under arrest?”
“Only the guilty. Not the brave.”
His eyes took in the room. “Hospital. What happened?”
“There was an explosion. You were hurt.”
“Yeah...” Memory returned. “Why are you holding my hand?”
“You were hurt pretty badly.”
“My hand...?” He tested his body. “My leg! I can’t find my left leg!”
She held his hand more tightly. “They had to take it, Bob. They tried desperately to save it.”
“My leg? They took my leg?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Couldn’t they have asked me?” He raised up on his elbows. “Maybe there was something...!”
“You couldn’t answer.” She eased him back. “And there was nothing else they could do. I saw it, Bob. It was the explosion that shattered it. There was nothing left to repair.”
“How far up is it...?”
“Your knee is okay. Just below it.”
He pulled his hand from hers and turned his face to the wall. Through a window at the foot of the bed came bright morning sunlight. The storm had passed. For some. “Peg Leg Bob. Make it through a dozen fire-fights and lose it moving cars in Bartlett, New Hampshire.” He swiveled his head back. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out securing your perimeter, or whatever agents-in-charge do? You don’t have to sit with me...anyone else hurt?”
“I wondered if you’d get to that. No, not badly.”
“Just Bob the Gimp, huh?”
“Yes. Your leg must have gotten the full force of the grenades.”
“Those weren’t grenades. Bazooka. Why weren’t others injured? Those things pack a wallop.”
“We were all in the back of the house.”
“Yeah, but that wouldn’t...the chimney. It runs through the center of the house, doesn’t it. You were all damn lucky.”
He faced the wall again. There was silence for a very long time. “Go on. Get out of here.” The voice came muffled by the pillow.
Frances Ingalls rose from her chair and stood looking at Gold.
His head came back. “You hear me?”
She nodded and went out, shutting the door behind her. Hudson was in a room down the hall. As Ingalls entered, he was having a forceful speech from Dr. Evans.
“What is it with you?” demanded the doctor. “We have some of the finest accommodations in the Valley - where else do you get individual TV, not for each room but each bed - and you refuse to relax and enjoy them.”
Hudson grinned. “I’d have one hell of a time trying to see your personalized television lying on my face. Jim, I appreciate your hospital needs the money.” Evans made a face. “And if one has to get shot up, he couldn’t find a more convenient location in which to be ventilated. But I very much doubt if armed thugs roaming your corridors will improve your image.”
The doctor eyed him. “Armed thugs? What are you into now?” Evans considered the Rogers the most interesting of all his patients. The previous fall he’d patched bullet damage for one, and sewn up an arrow wound for the other. It was one of the most satisfying experiences for his insatiable curiosity to then be invited in on the end of the story. “You really believe whatever monster is after you - what do you do, advertise for them? – and that he’ll chase you right in here?”
“It could happen. Now bring me my clothes. Or point me to them.” He turned to Frances Ingalls. “Where’s John?”
“Gone back to Boston.”
“How’s Bob taking it?”
“How would you?”
Hudson nodded and turned back to the doctor. “Clothes.” Evans glared, then slapped his hands to his sides and left the room.
“Mr. Gold says it was a bazooka,” said Ingalls.
“Good Christ! You’d think we were in the Middle East! Someone’s got his geography mixed”.
A nurse came in with Hudson’s clothes and a reproving look. Changing in the bathroom, he had difficulty pulling trousers over the bandaging.
“Can I help,” inquired Ingalls, listening to his struggles.
“You could get the car warmed up and the others in it. I’m going to stop by Bob’s room and be right along.”
“It will be out front.”
Gold was still facing the wall and didn’t turn his head when Hudson opened the door.
“It’s Hudson, Bob.” He moved to the bed. “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about getting you into this.”
“Shit, I asked to come over, remember?” He turned to face the other. “I was headed for trouble of some sort anyway.” He shook his head. “Been a hermit too long.” He turned a
way. “Now I’ve a chance to see how I like it as a cripple. I’ll get to know all the places that take a wheelchair and fuss over those that don’t.”
“You’re not going to be in a wheelchair. You’ll start off on crutches, which can go most places, until they make you a prosthesis.”
“Gimping along.”
“Oh for Christ’s sakes! Where do you want to go in such a hurry? You don’t run anyway. At least I’ve never been able to get you to.”
“Your house gone?”
“Yeah. Just a pile of wood.”
“Where will you go, Wally’s?”
“That’s the plan.”
Gold was silent a moment. “It’s a military operation. Carver’s is a good site to defend, if you know what you’re doing...I could have...”
“Then get yourself in shape to travel. We can survive till you’re fit.”
Could they? Hudson limped down the hospital corridor. Against an opponent that didn’t hesitate to bring up heavy artillery? Did they know they’d almost murdered an FBI man? And woman. Was it possible they knew and considered it an acceptable risk? The stakes would have to be mighty high. This was no crazed psychopathic killer; this was a well-funded organization with contacts. You didn’t pick up a bazooka at the local hardware store. The Sturgis secret. Do they figure we know it now? Whatever it is, it’s so important they were willing to risk an FBI manhunt. He stopped. Or were they focusing attention on us while their plan took shape elsewhere? No, this wasn’t just a diversion. They think we know something and are trying to make sure it stops here.
One thing was clear. They’d made it us or them. And the advantage was clearly with them - whoever the hell `them’ was.
Six hours was normal, but three hours sleep and she was wide-awake, fully dressed in the Carver living room. What had happened to her life? The quiet security of the ashram to an attempted kidnapping, a blown-up house and a nanny-bodyguard. Well, it was not going to continue. She’d...the telephone rang. She snatched it off its cradle quickly so as not to wake the others. Who...?
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