Hardbingers rj-10

by F. Paul Wilson

  Damn me.

  With everything else going on—arriving in a rush, learning about Zeklos's death and the note, then Miller and his crew taking off, he'd completely forgotten about the kid and how she must be feeling.

  They needed a grown woman here, someone Diana could talk to, confide in, cry on her shoulder. Being an Oculus was a hellish responsibility for an adult. It had to be crushing for a teenage girl.

  Teenage girl… oh, hell, had she had her first period yet? Who'd talk to her about it? Who'd go to the store for tampons or whatever they were using these days?

  We need a woman!

  But female yeniceri didn't exist. The MV was strictly Old School in that regard. Women had never been members and therefore women would never be members.

  Maybe not a bad idea. Imagine the turmoil and distractions they'd cause in the training camps.

  Poor Diana. She couldn't go to school or have even one friend. Not with those eyes. They'd give rise to too many unanswerable questions.

  So it was up to Cal.

  Had to tread carefully here. Couldn't let her think he was interested in anything but her well-being, that he was knocking on her door at this hour with any agenda other than to see if he could help. Her world had fallen apart. She had to be crushed, terrified. He didn't want to add to that.

  He knocked on the doorframe.

  "Diana?"

  A startled gasp, then a teary, hesitant, "Yes? Who's there?"

  "It's me—Davis. Are you all right?"

  Louder sobbing answered his question.

  He leaned next to the door, unsure of what to do. He knew a hundred ways to kill, but hadn't the slightest clue as to how to comfort a newly orphaned teenage girl. Maybe if he'd been a father at some time, but…

  "Want to talk?"

  A sniff. "That's okay." Another sniff. "No, wait. Yes."

  "Okay if I come in?"

  "O-okay. But just to talk, just for a minute."

  Yep. Had to tread very carefully here.

  He stepped into the room but didn't turn on the lights. He figured she'd rather not be seen with tears on her cheeks. And to be honest, he'd rather not see those black eyes of hers. Her father's hadn't fazed him, but Diana's… he'd watched her grow up with normal blue eyes. Seeing them now as glossy black orbs disturbed him. The little girl had mutated into something else.

  He was glad she wore shades day and night—but he doubted very much she wore them to bed.

  Enough glow from the floodlights seeped through the blinds to allow him to make out the huddled shape sitting in bed with the covers pulled up to her neck, held there by little hands protruding from the sleeves of one of her long flannel nightgowns. He knew about those because he'd packed them for her.

  He found a chair and pulled it up next to the bed, then seated himself facing her.

  "I can't imagine what you're going through," he told her. "None of us can. You must be frightened half out of your mind."

  A whimper. "I am."

  "I hope you know that we're here for you, ready to die for you. But I've realized that's not enough. You need a family. We'll be that family. You've got a dozen uncles." Only eight, he thought, if Miller and company didn't come back. "We'll make time for you whenever you need it. We'll school you, play games when you want us to, leave you be when you want time to yourself. The important thing you've got to realize is that you're not alone in this, Diana."

  She began crying again—deep, wracking sobs this time. The sound tore him up.

  Without realizing he was doing it, Cal reached out and took her hand. He was ready for her to pull away, and that would be okay, but instead she clutched it with both tear-slick hands.

  "I'm so-so-so scared!"

  "It's all right to be. You didn't choose this life, I know, and it won't be easy, but we'll all try to make the best of it."

  "You don't uh-understand. I'm scared of an Alarm. I don't want to get an Alarm."

  Cal could understand that. He'd seen her father when they hit him. They didn't look pleasant. Diana undoubtedly had seen it too. He didn't blame her for being frightened.

  But what to say?

  "All I can tell you is we'll help you in any way possible."

  Lame-lame-lame.

  "But what if one comes at night?"

  Cal didn't have an answer for that beyond an even lamer, "We'll come as soon as you call." Then he thought of something. "Maybe you won't have any Alarms."

  "Why not?" She sounded almost offended.

  "Well… what good would they do? Unless they concern something right here on Nantucket, what can we do about it?"

  After a few heartbeats she said, "You really think so?"

  He had no idea but felt compelled to ease her fears any way he could.

  "It's a possibility."

  "Can't you stay with me?"

  He temporized. "I can stay here now while you get some sleep. Lie back down. I'll stand—I mean sit watch. You'll be okay."

  She removed one hand from his but kept a tight grip with the other. She slid further under the covers and lay prone. In minutes she was asleep.

  Cal sat and held her hand. Maybe after she'd experienced an Alarm or two she'd feel more at ease. Until then, he'd do what he had to do. If it meant holding her hand all night, then so be it.

  With his free hand he switched his cell to vibrate.

  Where the hell was Miller?

  2

  Jack was dozing in the family waiting room when his phone started vibrating. He recognized the caller's number—Russ—so he roused himself, stepped into the hall, and hit SEND.

  "Jack? Did it. Decryption accomplished. Made the deadline, right?"

  Jack glanced at his watch: 5:47.

  "Just barely. Any mention of Nantucket?"

  "Yeah. A few. Don't know what you're after, but what I've found doesn't look like much. Something like a Quicken file."

  Quicken… money-management software. If the MV was making mortgage payments on the Nantucket place…

  "Be right over."

  He decided to hoof it. Russ was only a mile and a half or so away. Jack had garaged the car and by the time he got it out on the street or found a cab he could be there. Besides, the cold air would revive him.

  Christ, he was tired.

  The air, the exercise, and the cuppa Joe he grabbed from an all-night coffee shop on 81st combined to revive him, leaving him alert and fairly energetic by the time he arrived at Russ's.

  Jack had seven-fifty in bills ready in his hand when Russ opened the door. He didn't want any jive—he wanted info.

  "Here." He handed Russ the wad. "Show me."

  Russ stared at the bills, then at Jack. He wore a stunned expression. "That was quick."

  Jack pushed past him and stalked toward the computer. He was not in a chatty mood.

  "Show me."

  Russ pocketed the cash as he scooted ahead. He hung over the chair and started banging the keyboard.

  "It's right about—here." He pulled out the chair and motioned for Jack to sit. "There's six gigs of data on that drive. I searched high and low but this was the only mention of Nantucket I could find."

  Jack saw bar graphs and calendars but no mention of Nantucket.

  "What am I looking at?"

  "It's a bill management program. Let's you know if and when you paid a recurring expense." He ran his finger along a line. "See these numbers. They all went to a guy named Darryl Heth on Pocomo Road in Nantucket—or should that be on Nantucket?"

  "And who might he be?"

  "Well, he's listed under 'Maintenance,' so I'd guess he's some sort of handyman or caretaker."

  "Does it say where he does his maintaining?"

  Russ shook his head. "That's about it: name, address, and 'Maintenance.' That what you're looking for?"

  "Not quite. No mortgage payments listed?"

  "Maybe. But if so, they're not linked to Nantucket." He reached over Jack's shoulder and entered a few bursts of typing. He shook his head. "
Nope. No mortgages at all."

  Jack stared at the screen. He hadn't learned any more about the location of the new MV home, but he'd bet the ranch that Darryl Heth could tell him.

  "Print out his name and address for me."

  "Gonna write him a letter?"

  "Nope. Going to pay Mr. Heth a visit."

  3

  Jack was dozing in his car outside the Twin Airways hangar in the wilds near a Long Island burg with the improbable name of Muttontown, when Joe Ashe pulled up in a very retro, very bright yellow Chevy SSR pickup.

  "Thank God," Jack muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  He'd been having trouble hooking up with the Ashe brothers the last two times he'd needed to fly. He hadn't been able to get past their voice mail earlier so he'd driven out to wait. He hoped Joe wasn't here to get ready for another charter.

  Joe, tall and skinny, stepped out of his truck and ambled toward Jack's Vic, a curious expression on what little was visible of his face. He wore shades and a cowboy hat low over his fair, shoulder-length hair. The lower part of his face hid behind a short beard just the far side of stubble.

  Jack stepped out and waved.

  Joe grinned when he recognized him. "Hey, Jack," he said in a molasses-thick Georgia accent. "How're they hangin, boy?"

  Jack had borrowed that accent last week when he'd braced the yeniceri from the rear of their Suburban.

  "Need your help."

  Joe laughed. "Some more larkin like that tire-dumpin gig? Man, that was so fun it oughta be illegal." He struck a pensive pose with a hand to his chin. "Hey, wait a minute. I do believe it was."

  "Got to get to Nantucket, Joe."

  "Not a problem. Long's you don't need to go today."

  "I need to be there now. As in yesterday."

  "Shoot, man. I got a charter scheduled for midday." He looked at the gray clouds lidding the sky. "Course that might not happen. Got a heap of weather on the way. A snowy nor'easter, they say."

  "What about Frank?" Frank was Joe's twin brother.

  "On a charter to Tampa. Lucky bastard. He'll probably stay there awhile to wait out the storm."

  "This is really important, Joe. Please. I'll pay you anything."

  "Ain't a question of money—question of time. Why'nt you just go commercial? And if you can't do that, I reckon I can call on some folks'll be glad to take you."

  "The how is as important as the where and the when. I need to bring along some hardware."

  Joe stared at him a moment, then said, "C'mon inside where it's warmer."

  He led Jack to the hangar, unlocked the door, and deactivated the alarm. Inside Jack saw a Gulfstream jet and a few small prop models.

  In the cozy office in the front corner, Joe started a pot of coffee. Looked like he'd set it up the night before so it would be ready to go.

  Jack said, "How long will it take you to get me there?"

  "Do 'er in half an hour, tops."

  Jack glanced at his watch. "It's only a little after eight. You can be back by nine-thirty."

  "Whoa-whoa-whoa." Joe held up his hands. "This here ain't like jumpin inna pickup. You gotta do all sorts of checks'n shit."

  "Well, let's get started. I'll help."

  He opened his mouth and Jack expected another refusal, but Joe caught himself. Maybe Jack's desperation had seeped through.

  Finally he sighed. "Shit. What the fuck. Let's do 'er. How long you plan bein there?"

  "Overnight. Less if you can hang out and—"

  "'Fraid you're gonna have to get back on your own. Last thing I need is to get snowed in at ACK."

  "Ak?"

  "A-C-K—Nantucket Memorial's ID code. Come on. Let's get doin if we're gonna do this."

  Jack wanted to hug him but figured Joe wouldn't appreciate that.

  4

  The sleek little four-seat, two-prop Diamond Twinstar had a bumpy time in the cloud-filled sky.

  "Unsettlement in the air," Joe told him through the headphones.

  "Long as we don't do a John-John."

  "Gotta few more hours under my belt. Just a few."

  Jack knew the Ashe boys had uncountable hours of flight time, but still he hung on and prayed.

  He hid his relief when, at a little after ten, he was able to step out onto the tarmac of tiny Nantucket Memorial Airport. He pulled his duffel bag from the rear and shook hands with Joe.

  "I owe you one, man."

  "Hell, you paid me."

  "You know what I mean."

  Joe smiled through his beard. "Yeah, I do. Hope things never get to the point where I have to call you up and collect."

  "You've got my number."

  Joe looked at the sky. "Don't reckon I'll be able to come back here for a while. Once that nor'easter hits—and it looks to be real soon—I'll be snowed in. We ain't commercial or even municipal. Takes time to get our strips plowed."

  Since Jack wasn't sure he'd be able to go back tomorrow—or ever, for that matter—he took the news in stride.

  "I'll work something out."

  Joe rubbed the arms of his sweatshirt. "God damn, I swear it's even colder here than back home. I gotta get back inside."

  Jack waved, then hurried through the razor-edged wind to the solitary, cedar-shake-sided building where he found a Budget counter. After renting him a Jeep Liberty, the woman there gave him a map and outlined the route to Pocomo Road.

  Pocomo, it turned out, was a section of Nantucket whose main artery was—surprise—Pocomo Road. The area lay northeast of the airport as the crow flies, but no road ran the crow route. He'd have to follow a roundabout course that took him west and then back eastward.

  A small annoyance, but still an annoyance. It meant delay, and time was a fist against his back, kidney punching. If the doc had been right last night about Gia and Vicky having twenty-four hours left, damn near half of that was already gone.

  If Darryl Heth didn't want to tell him what he needed to know, what then? Getting rough with him would be counterproductive—might alert the yenigeri that someone was asking questions about their place. He'd have to use an oblique approach—make Heth tell him about the house without Jack asking about it.

  He thought he knew a way. But first he had to find the place.

  Due to multiple wrong turns, the ten-mile trip along winding, rolling roads took forty minutes. He detected a conspiracy in the lack of road signs out here. The first three or four miles had been fine, everything clearly marked. But the farther east he moved, the spottier the markings. This was the less populated, untouristy half of the island. He sensed the residents saying, if you can't find your way around here, maybe you shouldn't be around here.

  All of which he understood. And sympathized with. But not when he was working against the clock.

  As he drove, following a line of canted telephone poles, Jack noticed that almost every house, no matter what the shape or size, had a dark roof and cedar-shake siding. No tile-roofed, stucco-walled, Tara-columned, bright-colored, vinyl-sided McMansions here. No McDonald's either, for that matter. Or Wendy's or Burger King. A chain-free oasis that discouraged the look-at-what-I-can-buy parvenus. A suburb of heaven.

  Finally, Pocomo Road. He followed it, marveling at the huge houses on either side, until he ran out of pavement. He kept going. He found "Heth" on a mailbox on the right and followed a winding pair of sandy ruts through the six-foot-high brush to Chez Heth, a tiny, cedar-shaked ranch on the north side near the end of the road. Head Case had been carved into the wood of a canoe paddle fixed over the front door.

  Hardly encouraging.

  Jack parked in front, walked to the door, and knocked. A thin woman, in her sixties, wearing a house dress, answered the door. Her pale blue, wrinkle-caged eyes took his measure as she stood and stared at him.

  Jack said, "Can I find Darryl Heth here?"

  "Who's asking?"

  "Someone who might have some work for him."

  "He's 'round back, chopping wood."

  He walked around and found
a sixtyish man splitting logs with a long-handle ax. Reminded Jack of a Charles Bronson scene from The Magnificent Seven.

  Jack introduced himself as John Tyleski. Heth took off his gloves and they shook hands. His palm and fingers were tortoise-shelled with callus. His face was as wrinkled as his wife's.

  "Beautiful piece of property you've got here."

  Jack was burning to shake the info out of this guy, but he held back. Never hurt to soften up a source. Besides, Jack wasn't lying. Heth's house sat on a bluff overlooking a huge expanse of ice—square miles of it. He imagined how beautiful it must look in the summer with sun sparkling on the water.

  "Yeah. Been in the family forever. If I wanted to buy this property now, I couldn't afford it. Hell. I couldn't afford a corner of it. The price of land on the island…" He shook his head in disgust.

  "Don't I know. I'm looking to buy and it's, well, it's just incredible." He pointed toward the ice. "What am I looking at here?"

  "The head of the harbor." He pointed a gnarled finger leftward. "See that low shore on the far side over there? That's the coatue; it keeps out Nantucket Sound."

  Jack saw a sandy colored strip capped with a fuzz of vegetation—scrub brush, most likely.

  He pointed straight ahead across the ice. "And there to the east, that line of dunes you see keeps out the Atlantic."

  The same kind of strip, but this one sported a single large house midpoint.

  "Does the harbor always freeze up like this?"

  "Not the whole harbor, not down by town, though sometimes that happens and an icebreaker has to come through so we can get food and heating oil. But here, well, the head of the harbor's something of a backwater. Freezes over most every winter. This year's no exception."

  Jack nodded toward the stack of split wood. "Doesn't look like you'd miss the oil much."

  "Been burning a lot more of that since the price of oil went outta sight." He eyed Jack. "But I gather you didn't come here to admire the view, nice as it is, or talk about oil. Just to save us both some time, let me tell you flat out that this place ain't for sale."

  "I appreciate that." Jack dropped an oceanfront street name he'd picked off the map: "I've been looking at property along Squam Road—"