Measure of Darkness

by Chris Jordan

  “He remembers that Joey is alive,” Dane confides. “The professor’s missing son.”

  Bevins instantly perks up. “Location?”

  “Unknown. But Joey was spotted in the vicinity.” She explains that in a moment of apparent lucidity, Shane recalled having seen a video of Joey taken on a bridge crossing the Charles River.

  “A ransom clip?”

  “Possibly. He didn’t say. That was earlier today, we’re trying to run it down.”

  “And you’ve shared this information with who?”

  Dane shrugs. “With my boss.”

  “Not with the authorities?”

  Dane gives her a level look. “It was the ‘authorities’ who did this to him. Look, he’s been interrogated for seventy-two hours straight and then discarded. The ‘authorities,’ which happen to include you, have already been alerted to the possibility of a kidnapped child. We informed the Boston cops, the Cambridge cops and the local field office of the FBI, as I’m sure you know. The reaction? Professor Keener didn’t have a child, so how could a kid that doesn’t exist be missing or abducted?”

  Bevins’s smile is grim, acknowledging the truth of what Dane is saying.

  “Mostly I didn’t want a goon squad of macho detectives in here interrogating him yet again. The poor guy already thinks somebody removed part of his brain.”

  Bevins winces. “Dr. Gallagher mentioned that that will pass.”

  “Let’s hope she’s right. Meantime, Naomi Nantz is on the case. No small thing.”

  “And you think having your boss in the hunt, that’s better than any of these ‘authorities’ you so clearly mistrust?”

  “Absolutely. The local cops have already decided he’s a stone killer and your FBI colleagues in the Boston office have yet to respond to our inquiries. We don’t expect them to. The Bureau never shares, not with civilians.”

  Bevins glances at the open doorway again, her eyes calculating. “I’m about to share, but it can’t have come from me, do you understand? At this point I can’t be seen conferring with a private investigator. Which is why I was hoping to catch you here at the hospital. I’m logged as visiting a sick friend, period.”

  “Understood.”

  The agent takes a breath, hesitates.

  “Naomi is famous for her discretion,” Dane assures her. “You must know that.”

  “Yeah,” Bevins says. “But what about you?”

  “I’d pretend to be insulted but, really, what’s the point?”

  “Okay, fine. If you work for Nantz you must be okay. Here’s the deal. When I spoke to you in Washington, I was under the impression that the Bureau never had Professor Keener on its radar, and that we certainly had nothing to do with Shane’s rendition, if that’s what it was. The latter is still true, but I was mistaken about Keener. He’s been a subject of interest.”

  Instantly, Dane focuses. “In what way a subject of interest?”

  “An anonymous memo came through Homeland, alerting the Bureau to the fact that Keener, whose company is apparently involved in top-secret research, had made at least two unexplained visits to China. The inference being, he might be passing information to Chinese intelligence agents.”

  “And was he?”

  Bevins shrugs her wide shoulders. “I have no way of knowing. The Bureau did due diligence, concluded the subject had no contact with foreign agents. He’d been seen conversing with quite a number of Chinese people—not exactly surprising if you’re visiting China—but none were identified as agents of the Chinese government. Therefore no evidence that he was passing secrets, either in China or here in the U.S., and therefore no further action was warranted. That information was bounced back to Homeland, as required, and there it stayed, with access restricted to the highest levels.”

  “So the professor was no longer under surveillance?”

  “Not by the Bureau, no. It’s still within FBI purview to take the lead in espionage cases, but in the real world, post-911, and with the exception of the odd batch of Russians infiltrating the suburbs, the emphasis has been on counterterrorism, not spy catching. We’re focused on the guy with the bomb strapped to his underwear, not the scientist with the laptop full of data. That’s just how it is.”

  “So the Bureau isn’t interested, but others might be. Are you saying Professor Keener was under investigation by another agency? Can you be more specific?”

  Bevins shakes her head. “Sorry, no. Can’t, because I don’t know for sure. Just a rumor of interest, you might call it. Persistent questions about Keener’s connections to China—it was known that he had a Chinese girlfriend—but no actual evidence to warrant FBI involvement. Somebody in the community didn’t trust him, that’s for sure.”

  “This ‘rumor of interest,’ did it mention the boy?”

  Monica Bevins looks down, studying her large but somehow elegantly shaped hands. Elegant but for the fact that some of her nails are chewed to the quick. “There was a mention, yes, in the context of family vulnerabilities. It was noted that agents of the People’s Liberation Army are known to intimidate their targets by making threats, usually very vague, about the well-being of family members who still reside in China.”

  “That’s it? No mention that Joey Keener was actually missing?”

  Bevins shakes her head. “The circulated memo was a simple series of questions, the point of which was to stimulate an active response from interested agencies. Why had Professor Keener frequently emailed an address in Hong Kong? Why did he go there? What was he doing in mainland China? Who did he meet there? Was the mother of his illegitimate child an agent of the PLA? Was the child being used as leverage? Like that.”

  “And you have no idea who circulated this memo?”

  “I can guess, but sharing the specific source would be a felony, and I can’t go there, not even for Naomi Nantz.”

  “Not even for Randall Shane?”

  Bevins’s cold glare makes Dane feel like she’s been drenched by a bucket of ice water. “The Bureau looks out for its own,” the big woman says, hotly. “We’re now fully involved. There’s an FBI alert out for the missing child, as of this morning. That’s all you need to know.”

  Before the young lawyer can apologize—testing and probing, that’s her job, nothing personal—the patient groans from his hospital bed. They both turn to see Shane attempting to sit up.

  “Monica!” he cries in a ragged whisper.

  A moment later the two old friends are embracing, faces wet with tears, and this time Dane Porter follows her best instincts and steps out of the room for a few minutes. Texting quietly as she goes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Bogie Man Says Boo

  He always carries his own bag. No cart, no caddy, and the best part, today he’s playing alone. Not quite a scratch golfer, but close, and perfectly capable of birdieing this, the seventeenth hole. Salt water on two sides, as blue as the sky above. Seagulls wheel like silent drones in the high summer air. Unarmed, he hopes, chuckling to himself. On this course, with so many ducks and seabirds in the general vicinity, members wear hats to avoid the splat.

  Taylor Gatling, Jr., finds himself in an excellent mood, savoring life. It helps that he owns the course, and that he’s arranged to have this part of it to himself. Nobody ahead, nobody behind. Could a man ask for more?

  Oh yes, a chilled martini back at the clubhouse. That will make it a perfect day for bananafish, as his dad used to say, in reference to some silly story Taylor never bothered to read. Taylor has never cared for fiction. Why bother, when reality is so much more interesting?

  With no other players pressing he can take his own sweet time, savoring the moment, imagining his triumph. Two hundred and fifteen yards to the pin, no problem, sir, consider it done. He selects his club, extracts it from the bag. An easy three-wood will impart the necessary backspin, placing the ball tight on the green.

  Taylor can feel the birdie, has it firmly in his mind. He’s in the act of bending down to place the ball
on the tee when he detects the putt-putt of an approaching tractor mower, and curses softly. He waits, assuming that the groundskeeper, upon seeing the owner himself poised to drive, will turn around and leave the area.

  The tractor keeps coming, chugging up the slope. Oddly enough, the blades in the rig are not engaged. The damned fool isn’t even mowing. Taylor focuses on remaining calm. The man must be a simpleton, don’t let him ruin the moment. The tractor approaches a long bunker, one the machine can’t possibly traverse, but instead of swinging around to leave, the groundskeeper sets the brake and climbs down from the little green bucket seat and strides up toward the tee.

  Taylor can’t quite make out the man’s face—the sun is behind him—but he recognizes the type of wide straw hat often worn by those who maintain the fairways and greens. And then, jarringly, he suddenly recognizes the jaunty stride of a man who is most certainly not one of the groundskeepers.

  “Hey, boss, how they hanging?”

  “What the hell are you doing here? I told you never to—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” says the man who insists on calling himself Kidder. “Never speak to you in public. Well, this isn’t public, is it? This is a private course and you own it. Plus there’s nobody here but us chickens. Or ducks or seagulls or whatever.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Taylor says, scanning the area to make damn sure they’re alone. “Are you out of your mind? What do you want?”

  “I tried you at, what do you call it, your bad little boys club? Nobody home. And you won’t give me a cell phone number, which is just a tiny bit insulting.”

  “You were at the boathouse?” Taylor hisses, throttling his three-wood. “Were you seen?”

  “I’m sure your security cameras clocked me, but you can erase that, right? The point is, we need to have a conversation, so I made it happen.”

  “This is beyond the pale!”

  Kidder chuckles. “Really? Beyond the pale? I always wondered what that means. I mean, what is the pale, exactly, and how do you get beyond it? I’ll bet that’s one of the things your father used to say.”

  “Leave my father out of this!”

  “Hey, no problem.” Kidder zips his lips. “Total silence in the father department. I could care less about fathers, if you want to know the truth. My concern is mother and child.”

  “You’re never to contact me. We communicate through an intermediary, that was the arrangement.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s always an exception, and this is it. The situation is getting to be a problem and needs to be resolved. Permanently, would be my preference.”

  Taylor walks in a tight circle, tapping the ground with the heel of his club. “Not yet,” he says, jaw clenching. “Absolutely not. Direct order.”

  “I don’t get it,” Kidder says, as if bemused. “The operation is over. Time to tidy up.”

  “What makes you think it’s over?”

  “Looks over to me. The evildoers are dead, if not quite buried, and the target is in custody, with enough evidence to plant his bony ass in jail for life. Done and dusted. Over.”

  “It’s not your call, damn it! And for your information the operation is not over. Not quite.”

  “No? That’s fine. I’m always up for more. So what happens next? Give me a clue.”

  “You’ll know when you get your orders.”

  Kidder is amused. “My orders? We’re no longer in the field, Captain. I’m an independent contractor.”

  Taylor glares.

  Kidder remains affable. “Okay, fine. I’ll maintain status quo, await instruction. But I know what you’re thinking, Cap. I always knew what you were thinking back in the day, and I do now.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking I need my ticket punched, once this is all over. Tie up the last of the loose ends. Bury me in a foxhole and move on.”

  “You’re wrong. I’d never—”

  “Yeah, you would,” Kidder interrupts. “I get it, a man in your position. So much to lose. Thing is, I’ve taken precautions. If I go down, you’ll be right behind me. That’s a certainty, Cap. I’ll be saving you a place in hell.”

  “What have you done?” Taylor hisses, struggling to keep his voice down.

  “Taken precautions. So put it out of your mind. And do please let me know what happens next. Provide me with a contact number. And soon, or I’ll have to go all rogue, and you always hated that.”

  Taylor waits until the smart-mouthed bastard is over the hill and gone, and then he takes a deep breath and swings at the little white ball.

  And misses.

  In his mind his dead father laughs and says, strike one, my son.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nine Little Words

  I’m updating the case notes into my personal shorthand when a blinking light on my desk indicates an incoming call on the secure line.

  I lift the handset and announce, “Alice Crane, Secretary of Ambivalence.”

  “Hey, Alice.”

  “Hey, Dane. ’Sup?”

  “Nothing earthshaking,” she says, way too casually. “Listen, I just remembered I left my lipstick in that little bathroom down the hall from Naomi’s office? Could you check when you get the chance? Pale Peach.”

  “Not a problem. Later, alligator.”

  I grab my purse, give a shout-out to boss lady, letting her know there’s an errand needs running, and leave the residence. The call for lipstick is a coded signal that Dane needs my ears to her lips, with no chance the conversation will be overheard, electronically or otherwise. Plus we never say “office,” always “command center” or “command,” so misuse of a common word underlines the importance of a request. She’s staked out in Randall Shane’s room at the hospital and won’t be letting him out of her sight until the indictment comes down, so that means hoofing it to Mass General and hearing whatever it is that’s too important to wait for the evening briefing.

  With all the talk of spies and secret security agencies, and what I know firsthand about hovering helicopters, you might say my sense of awareness has been heightened. Or I’m getting to be as paranoid as the late professor. Whatever, I hit the street with eyes peeled, after deciding to proceed on foot rather than bike or taxi. Figuring as a pedestrian I’ve got a better chance of spotting a tail, and a brisk walk will do me good.

  All is serene for several blocks. Considering Back Bay is in the heart of the city, it’s amazing how lush and varied the urban vegetation gets this time of year. There are places where the canopy of white ash trees almost entirely spans the narrower streets, and many of the tulip trees and dogwoods are still in full bloom. I’m striding east on Beacon, in the vicinity of Fisher College, when I finally spot her. A young, professional-looking female quickly exiting a black SUV half a block ahead of me, on the opposite side of the street. What gives her away is a telling glance—she’s checking my precise location before pretending to wander along Beacon, as if looking for a particularly hard-to-find address.

  My guru and mentor in the art of spotting tails is Jack Delancey, so I know enough to drop my purse—oops, how clumsy!—and get a slant on the block behind me. A young, casually dressed male wearing sunglasses and a Bluetooth ear set studiously ignores me and walks right on by without offering to help with the spilled purse. So there are at least two tails and probably a third somewhere, waiting to be dropped off by the roving SUV, as well as another vehicle running backup, assuming this is a standard tail job with a full crew.

  Useful to know that I’m under surveillance—that probably means all of us are, which means a big operation, lots of manpower—but there’s not a lot I can do about it right at the moment, not without getting silly, not to mention sweaty. Besides, if they’re any good at all they’ll have already guessed that I’m heading to the hospital. Plus the trick with the purse will have confirmed my awareness of being followed.

  They know that I know that they know.

  Having established the mutual awareness, I give a friendl
y wave to the young lady dropped off by the SUV and carry on, speed-walking up Beacon. Take a left for six short blocks on Charles Street, and thence—as boss lady might say—into Mass General, and up to the secure floor where Randall Shane is being treated.

  I’m not cleared to enter his room—that privilege has now been restricted to his attorney, no casual visitors allowed—so Dane meets me at the end of the hallway, near the nurses’ station, where I make a show of handing over a tube of my own lipstick.

  “What, no Pale Peach?” she says with a grin.

  “Just so you know, I was tailed from the residence. A team effort.”

  Dane seems not the least surprised. She links her arm in mine and says, “I think we need a trip to the ladies’.” Steering me farther on down the hallway, until we’re out of sight of the uniformed officer stationed outside of Shane’s room.

  To my surprise, Dane walks us past the public restroom, and into a small utility closet, shutting the door and blocking it with her hip. Obviously a location she’d scouted for just this eventuality as a place unlikely to be bugged. The utility closet—a small room, really—reeks of Pine-Sol, with a distinct and recent whiff of illicit cigarette smoke. Custodians sneaking a puff, or maybe nurses. Or doctors, for that matter. Whoever, it won’t be long before some needy nicotine addict tries the door.

  “Shortly after his giant girlfriend left, the big guy beckoned me.”

  “Beckoned?” I say.

  “With the hand that isn’t cuffed,” she says. “Wanted me to bend down so he could whisper in my ear.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “What did he tell you?”

  Dane, eyes lively with conspiratorial glee, puts her lips to my ear, quite literally, and imparts, in nine succinct words, an extremely important piece of new information.

  Back at the residence, I confer with boss lady, who seems to be slightly peeved that I didn’t mention the particulars of my errand before leaving.