Measure of Darkness

by Chris Jordan

  So when the steel god of death tosses me aside and slips away, into the shadows, I remain where discarded, as numb as if I’d been wrapped in cotton batting.

  Jack finds me a block from the residence. I’m sitting on the curb hugging my knees to my chin without a thought in my head. Just being.

  “Alice, I’m so sorry.”

  A moment passes before I can speak. Several moments. “You did the right thing,” I finally manage to say. “I’m alive.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Whatever He Does for Fun

  Daybreak finds Gatling in his home office in New Castle, setting up the operation at a discreet remove. Using third and fourth parties, none of whom have known connections to GSG, or to him personally. The operation is fraught with risk—they always are—but he finds himself responding to the challenge. In days of old a good cavalry officer rode to the sound of gunfire. Something of that remains, although in his particular case, given all of his powers and connections, the gunfire is likely to be in the form of a subpoena, rather than a hail of lead. As to the real thing, he’s been there, thank you very much. He knows what it is to melt himself into a mountainside as enemy snipers rain fire, bullets fragmenting inches from his head, and, all things considered, he prefers the current situation.

  Having determined that a charter jet will be touching down within the hour, and that a fuel truck will be standing by at precisely the right moment, Taylor Gatling, Jr., grants himself a five-minute juice break. The hand-squeezed OJ is chilled to his preferred temperature, waiting on the shelf in the fridge under the office bar. He’s bending over to fetch it when the door opens. A door he distinctly recalls locking. He freezes in position, the most vulnerable parts of his body crouching behind the thickness of the bar, and then relaxes and stands up when he sees who it is.

  “You’re kind of cute when you’re bending over,” Kidder says.

  “Don’t you ever knock?”

  Kidder holds up an electric lock-pick gun and pulls the trigger, making it spin. “Amazing little gizmos,” he says. “Only thing that stops ’em is a keyless dead bolt. The only thing more effective is a fifty-caliber bullet.”

  “You’re late,” Gatling says.

  Kidder shrugs, and Gatling notes that he seems not the least concerned with any timetable. Idiot. He’s still wearing the wool cap, which Gatling suspects has scabbed to the back of his head. His eyes, always weirdly blank somehow, have gone seriously strange. Sign of a concussed skull, perhaps. Not a concern, long term, because, frankly, the man’s time is just about up. Gatling hasn’t arrived at the precise scenario, there are a couple of interesting options, but this particular threat is getting his ticket punched in the next forty-eight hours. After an enhanced interrogation has revealed whatever pathetic backup plans the nutball’s put in place. In the interest of containment, Gatling will have to take charge of the interrogation himself, but that’s not a problem, he has the skill set. Been there, done that.

  “You’re sweating and you stink,” Gatling says.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Not that you appear to care, but your mess has been cleaned up. Even if the woman goes to the authorities with some wild tale there will be no proof, no evidence. Her mental history will make any investigation unlikely.”

  “What are you saying?” Kidder says with a sly grin. “You finally offed the little brat?”

  Gatling looks repulsed by the suggestion. “Of course not. We’re not baby-killers. Not on purpose, anyhow. No, no, the flight has been arranged. He’s going back to China, where he will be hidden in plain sight. There are thousands of families eager to adopt. He’ll be given to some nice, hardworking peasant family in a remote province on the mainland.”

  “Oh yeah? I heard half-breeds end up in state orphanages. Nobody wants ’em.”

  Gatling shrugs, “Whatever happens, it will no longer be our responsibility.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind, eh? I like the way your brain works, Cap. Always have. But you’re dreaming if you think New Mommy is going away.”

  “Who?”

  “That chick you hired to nurse the brat.”

  “I told you, with her mental history no one will believe her.”

  “So that’s why you picked her? On account of her medical record?”

  “You know I did.” Gatling doesn’t like where this is going. He shouldn’t have to discuss tactics with a grunt.

  “Just so you know—I wouldn’t want to keep you out of the loop, Cap, no sir, that’s not my style—I dropped by the Nantz house to check on New Mommy. Figured she might go there.”

  For a long, stunning moment Gatling is at a loss for words. “You what?” he finally says.

  “Aside from anything else, the bitch knows what I look like. I can’t have positive IDs walking around in the world.”

  That’s not entirely true, nor his reason for invading the Back Bay residence. It’s more that he can’t let a woman get the better of him; the thought is insufferable, and makes the wounded back of his skull pulse with anger. As a matter of fact, not to be shared with his boss, he didn’t enter the Nantz residence in disguise and there are now at least three more people who have a pretty good idea what he looks like. He’s thinking, once he extracts sufficient funds from Gatling, that a little face surgery may be in order. He’s always wanted to look like George Clooney—why not?

  “I don’t know what to say,” Gatling says carefully, hiding his own spike of anger.

  “Done and dusted, nobody home.”

  “So they don’t know you gained access?”

  “Not a chance,” Kidder lies.

  “Okay, I think we’re done,” Gatling says, pausing to finish his juice.

  “Done? Really?”

  “Take a shower, Bob. Feel free to use the facilities. And for God’s sake, peel off that filthy cap. It makes you look demented.”

  Kidder appears to find the insults amusing, and makes no move to leave. He keeps hitting the trigger on the lock-pick gun. It makes a screechy little noise that has him smiling. “Since you’re so calm and everything, I’m assuming you haven’t heard the latest news.”

  Gatling is thinking that he has a gun in his desk drawer, fully loaded of course—what’s the use of a gun if it isn’t loaded?—and he could take care of the problem right this very minute. Except for the mess. No, better to wait, find his moment. “What news?” he says, not really interested in anything Kidder has to say.

  “Randall Shane is in the wind.”

  “I knew that five minutes after it happened,” Gatling says dismissively. “A physically and mentally damaged man wanders away from custody. So?”

  “He’s coming for the kid, Cap.”

  “Not a problem. He won’t know where to start.”

  Kidder seems to be amused by his nonchalance. “You had him on the premises. You think he can’t find his way back?”

  Gatling shakes his head. “He’s not a homing pigeon. Shane had no idea where he was being detained, believe me. And any connection he or Naomi Nantz have made to this organization is strictly theoretical. She came right here to my home and made demands, can you believe the nerve? But she was bluffing. She hasn’t got anything tangible, just a suspicion, and we’re going to keep it that way.”

  “Are we? That’s nice.”

  “Fancy a trip to Sichuan?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “Too bad. Because that’s your final assignment. You’ll handle the drop-off, and when you get back you and I are going to have a discussion about your severance package. It will be generous. You can retire and make crush videos, or whatever it is you do for fun.”

  “That your idea of a kiss-off?” Kidder smiles, clicking his front teeth together.

  “I think we’ve outgrown each other, Bob.”

  “Crush videos? If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had any.”

  “Oh,” Kidder says. “That
hurt.”

  He’s thinking that between here and China, accidents can happen. He intends to make sure the brat never has a chance to identify him. Gatling may not want a dead child on his conscience, but Kidder doesn’t suffer from that particular weakness. Murder can be fun, if you give it half a chance.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Good Enough for Alice

  Maybe there are people who can sleep soundly after having a gun put to their head. I’m not one of them, and if the previous sentence is ungrammatical, blame it on edgy insomnia.

  So at four-thirty in the morning, having showered more than once to get the stink of creep off me, I’m wide-awake and brushing my teeth when I hear the rat-tat-tat of a certain distinctive knock upon my bedroom door.

  “Ah,” says Naomi. “You’re up. Good. Dress quickly and meet us in command.”

  “Us” turns out to be Naomi and Jack. It’s clear that our senior investigator hasn’t been to bed at all and is eager to get on with whatever mission he’s been assigned. His “tell” isn’t subtle—he keeps glancing at his wristwatch.

  Boss lady, attired in one of her full-length silk kimonos, looks similarly determined. “Less than fifteen minutes ago Randall Shane made contact with Jack, using a throwaway phone. We have to assume the call was picked up by one of the national security agencies, because all calls are run through their filters. So that’s a given. Whether or not the raw data has been tagged or identified is unknown, but we have to assume that Mr. Gatling and his associates have access to the data banks, or can tag certain calls and callers. No doubt we are on his list. Shane spoke in a code familiar to Jack, but the mere fact that he made contact indicates an assumption that we intend to provide assistance, so there isn’t much time.”

  “Time for what?” I ask.

  “Providing assistance, of course. We need your help. Are you willing to risk the legal exposure?”

  Without hesitation I say, “Yes. Count me in.”

  Naomi nods, satisfied. “You’ll accompany Jack to the rendezvous point and remain there, reporting to me as events unfold. I can then take whatever actions I deem necessary.”

  “We’re going to help Shane get Joey, right?”

  “That’s the plan. You are to remain with the vehicle or nearby, is that understood? Keep your cell off unless you have to use it. It’s a virtual certainty they’ll be attempting to trace our movements.”

  “The FBI or Gatling’s people?”

  “Probably both.”

  “You really think the FBI is assisting in a kidnapping?”

  “No, absolutely not. But their security has been compromised. Anything they learn about this case is being passed on to GSG. Monica Bevins said as much, suggesting we’re on our own, and we must take her at her word. Now go, and Godspeed.”

  As we hurry down the hallway it’s obvious Jack isn’t really cool with having me along, but orders are orders.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “Nothing personal. I’m just not sure it makes sense to expose you to felony charges if the thing goes sideways.”

  “You’re concerned for my well-being?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “That’s sweet. So what kind of code did Shane use?”

  “Not a code, exactly. Verbal shorthand. We used to use it on open frequencies, in case bad guys had a scanner. You’d be surprised how many do. The call was very brief and to the point. ‘Mind your p’s and q’s.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “Emphasis on p’s. That would be Pease International Tradeport. He’ll be expecting us within the hour.”

  On the way down to the garage Jack opens a gun safe, hands me a Smith & Wesson Airweight that’s identical to the weapon Naomi was wielding for last night’s festivities. Also a box of .38 ammo that feels heavier than the gun itself.

  “Fine for me, but what about you?”

  He snorts. “I’m already carrying, and that’s for Shane. ‘Q’ is code for a throw down. He was letting me know he needed a weapon.”

  We get into his Lincoln Town Car and strap up. Jack’s a pest about seat belts. Before he turns the key he gives me one last out. “By picking up that gun you’re already in the act of aiding and abetting an escaped prisoner. It would be a whole lot safer to stay here and assist Naomi.”

  “It wasn’t safer last night.”

  “Good point,” he concedes. He thumbs a button on the visor and the garage door lifts.

  Standing there, blocking our view, is a big beefy guy in a Massachusetts State Trooper uniform.

  “Ah, shit,” says Jack. “You’ve got the gun. Get it to Shane. No delay. No time to clear it with Naomi, understood? I’ll make sure she knows what’s going down. You just make sure that—”

  Before he can finish the car door is yanked open and the big trooper “assists” Jack from the vehicle. “Mr. Delancey? You’ll have to come with me.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “The charge is, get in the cruiser and don’t speak until spoken to.”

  “Like that, huh?”

  “Captain Tolliver wants a word.”

  As he’s being jammed into the cruiser Jack catches my eye and croaks out, “Don’t hesitate, go!”

  And then the cruiser screeches down the public alley, leading our lead investigator away.

  Let me tell you, driving a Lincoln Town Car is like piloting a boat. Not that I’ve ever piloted a boat of any kind, but you get the idea. Big and wide and gliding along the highway like a battleship with an uncertain navigator at the wheel. There’d been such urgency in Jack’s request—right away, no delay, don’t hesitate—that I resisted the temptation to return to boss lady for a consultation. She’ll know soon enough and time is of the essence. By the time the cruiser clears the alley I’m headed in the opposite direction, doubling back through a few side streets, and then slipping onto Storrow Drive with fingers crossed, hoping I haven’t picked up a tail.

  As to the precise rendezvous location, all I know is that Taylor Gatling’s company is headquartered at the Pease International Tradeport. That’s where Milton Bean had been threatened with torture so it makes sense that Shane would be checking out Pease in his hunt for Joey Keener. And if he’s doing so in the company of the woman who had originally helped kidnap the boy, or at the very least helped care for him, then he—they, Shane and his accomplice—quite possibly have current information on the boy’s whereabouts.

  Fortunately for me, Jack’s ride has a built-in GPS. A female-sounding navigator who rather snippily directs me to go north on Route 95, which I do manage, although not as efficiently as Miss Snippy would have liked. Using the cruise control—the boat comes with every option—I keep it to just a teensy bit over the maximum speed limit, so as not to attract attention from the highway patrol, and settle in for the fifty-minute journey.

  All the while wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Not so much worried about legal repercussions—there’s always hope that Dane can sort those out—but doing the right thing for Joey. Maybe we’re wrong about the FBI being compromised and we should bring them in, use all that manpower and tactical advantage. Naomi could be wrong about that, we all could, but it’s not my call. So I decide to leave the option to boss lady, who is no doubt already factoring in what happened to Jack, considering all the possibilities. Possibilities I probably can’t even imagine, not being a genius with a brain that recalls every little thing.

  It boils down to this. Jack Delancey thinks it’s important that Shane be supplied with a weapon. And that, ultimately, is good enough for me.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Faith

  The birds are going nuts, making so much noise I feel it like a pressure in my ears. All of them shrieking, Over here! There’s a human over here! Or maybe they do this every morning, regardless of intruders. I wouldn’t know. The last time I went camping I was still married—or thought I was—and the experience involved a lovely little bungalow in the Berkshires. Paid for by me, of
course, although I didn’t know that at the time. Still, Girl Scout I’m not. Girl Scouts would have bug spray, in addition to nutritious cookies—I’m suffering from a distinct lack of breakfast—and I resent donating blood to the local mosquito swarm, however needy they may be.

  The navigator turns out to be useful but limited. It guides me to the Tradeport, no problem, but for whatever reason it can’t seem to come up with Gatling Security Group World Headquarters. Maybe it’s been blocked or shielded, like other high-value security targets. Or maybe I just failed to find the right screen on the smug little GPS. Whatever, in the end all I’ve got to guide me is my recollection of Jack’s description of where he was when he rescued Milton Bean. Something about a nature trail running alongside a huge airfield. The Tradeport is, after all, built around a former U.S. Air Force base with a runway big enough to land the space shuttle—if we still had one, that is.

  I located the runway—really, it can’t be missed—and by following the signs found a trail marked, no surprise, Nature Trail. The only trouble, as soon as I ventured away from the paved road I somehow misplaced the trail part. The vast expanse of the airfield is in sight, just beyond the thick leaves, but I’m left thrashing around in the thick underbrush, trying not to panic because the birds, damn their little shrieking beaks, are going to give me away.

  And that, of course, is exactly when my cell phone starts twittering. I’d turned it back on when I left the car, hoping Naomi will text me with something useful, but swear to the god of SIM cards that I left it on vibrate. Honestly, the rotten little Nokia seems to have a life of its own. I fumble around in my purse, nearly dumping out the Smith & Wesson, and flip open the phone. It is, as I expected and hoped, Naomi Nantz herself.