by Glen Carter
“Then came the Gulf War,” said Bolt.
“You’re too young to know about that,” Abe said. “The fuckers invaded Kuwait and basically flipped us the bird. So, we bombed the shit out of Baghdad and then launched a ground offensive. Problem was Bush didn’t take it all the way to Saddam’s doorstep. But don’t get me going on that.”
“Kallum and Rutter?”
“You couldn’t hold them back. Shit, they even joined up on the same day. War was just another competition between them. Who’d come back with the most medals? Be the big hero.”
Bolt knew that battlefields were littered with the bodies of kids just like them. “How did it happen?”
Abe drained his glass. Placed it on the table and tipped the bottle until it was half full again. He did the same for Bolt. Then breathed deeply. “They were on patrol. The Humvee was ambushed. They were all taken prisoner. By the time the cavalry got there, only one was still alive.” Abe spat Rutter’s name like an accusation and then laid a stubby finger on the photograph. “This was taken the night before they shipped out. Their farewell drunk. The next time I saw Kallum, he was in a coffin.” Reverently, Abe placed the photo in the wooden box and gently closed the lid. “They brought him home to his widow. To that bloody cemetery on the hill. Sarah was in pieces, and then Rutter, that prick, made his move.”
Abe finished the bottle and fell asleep. Bolt placed the two empty bowls into the galley sink and reached over to turn off the gas stove. He checked Abe a final time and pulled himself through the hatch to the aft deck. He tasted cool salt air. Metal rigging pinged on the boat’s mast. Abe’s ballad from the pub suddenly popped into his head.
Now I’m a broken man on a Halifax pier . . . the last of Barrett’s privateers.
The lament of a young sailor who had lost everything at sea. In Kallum Doody’s case, it was the sands of war.
26
Ryan sat patiently. A smudge unmoving in the shadows of the car. Parked beneath a tree a hundred yards from a boat called An Faoilean. It was not a sleek or pretty boat, so it didn’t seem out of place next to a pair of oily utility vessels docked on the grimy margins of the harbour.
From his lap he lifted a pair of night-vision binoculars and placed them tightly against his face. It was a process he had repeated many times while parked there, waiting, watching, and making the occasional entry in a notebook on the seat next to him.
The subject and another man had been conversing earlier in the pub. Shared a few beers like old friends, though their relationship was unknown. They left together and had gone on foot to the boat. They had boarded a couple of hours ago. That had already been noted. The subject’s companion was intoxicated. Bald, short, and obese. Dressed in a plaid shirt and dungarees. Lugging a guitar case. That had been written as well, in the same notebook. In fact, there were entries for the subject’s movements for the entire day.
Ryan would find out more about the drunk one later. The subject’s every contact would be investigated. Most were of no consequence, but the reporter was especially troubling. She had public profile that Ryan was familiar with. She normally did the fluff pieces that ended the news, bringing fake smiles to the faces of the airhead anchors. Muckraking was not her thing. Still, Ryan’s employer would not be happy about it. And Bolt. Squiring the woman and her crew around town today, like some local.
Ryan was used to the work, for which he was being well-paid. The long hours cramped his muscles and numbed his ass. There were the sporadic jolts of adrenalin when something happened, but mostly it was boredom. It took real talent to remain invisible while you stalked a target. He had done it countless times before. There were always jealous wives and husbands who paid for his services. He charged his corporate clients, life insurance companies and law firms a lot more. This time he was being paid well in excess of even those rates. He was meticulous and discreet and very patient, which was his stock in trade. There were others like him, but few with his connections. He was owed favours by many. Information was his currency, often his weapon. He was aware of who Stoffer answered to, and it thrilled him. Indirectly, he was doing the bidding of a man who was almost certainly going to be the next president of the United States. Ryan understood how important it was to keep Stoffer satisfied. The White House was full of people with special talents. They provided vital services for the nation, mostly unrecognized. Oliver North was one such person. Ryan suppressed a smile at the fantasy of his own West Wing cubbyhole.
He reached inside his windbreaker to check the safety on his weapon. The gun was smooth and comfortable at his armpit. For a moment he considered pulling the revolver for further inspection but decided against it. Ryan shifted in his seat. Waited for the feeling to return to his legs. Slipped slightly lower into the shadows of his rental.
Suddenly, there was movement. Ryan adjusted the binoculars. The subject came into view. Standing at the stern of the boat. He placed the binoculars on the seat and brought a camera to his face. The elongated lens was tweaked, bringing the subject into perfect focus beneath an overhead light. The shutter fired half a dozen times, and then Ryan placed the camera on his lap. A minute later, the binoculars were back at his face.
The subject pulled himself up a ladder to the dock and disappeared into the night.
The private investigator made another entry in his notebook.
27
Sully was parked beneath a street light outside a pizzeria. He watched Bolt walking toward him, tapping out some tune he was listening to on the radio. He stuck his head out the window. “Need a ride?”
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” Bolt said.
“It’s a rough town. Good thing I was here.”
Bolt jumped in the front, genuinely happy to see him. “You’re a saviour. I narrowly escaped a roving gang of blue-haired seniors.”
Sully laughed. “And I was attacked by a large vegetarian.”
“I feel your pain.”
“You can listen to my guts rumble as I take you home.”
“Not home.” Bolt gave him a destination.
“You’re not serious.”
“Serious as that meatless pizza you just devoured. You know the way. Let’s go.”
Still shaking his head, Sully put the car in drive.
Bolt had a lot on his mind, and he wasn’t in the mood for talking, so he listened to the radio while Sully drove. He had been inexplicably drawn into a dead man’s orbit. Is that why he had gotten aboard the cab? To confront him?
Ten minutes later, they turned off the main road onto a long driveway on the outskirts of town. A minute after that, they stopped at an ornate wrought-iron gate.
“I’m not driving in,” Sully said.
“Here’s good.”
“It’s not shaggin’ right.” Something tried to escape Sully’s throat. “Ghoulish, I say.”
“Like that pizza.”
“Not funny. Do you want me to stick around?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” Sully reached into the glovebox and handed him a flashlight. “It also makes a good club.”
“They’re dead, Sully.”
“Take it. You never know.”
Bolt stared out the window at the illusory bugaboos of his imagination. Treetops swayed. Shadows shifted and slithered. He got out and shut the door, then zipped up his jacket. Behind him the engine revved and tail lights blinked off into the night. He switched on the flashlight. The beam danced from stone to stone as he walked silently past the graves. Sully had told him where to go. Walk till he saw a tall Celtic cross. Turn left.
“Look for his mother’s flowers. They’re always fresh.”
Bolt was grateful for the flashlight. He swept it all around, never allowing it to pitch for more than a second. It took a few minutes to reach the turn in the path where the Cross towered overhead. Old-wo
rld grief brought from influenza or tragedy at sea. Quickly, he faced left and picked up his pace. A minute later, the torch fell upon a slab of ebony marble. He stopped. The scent of fresh flowers reached him. “Kallum Doody,” he whispered, as if to confirm that he had a voice and therefore a beating heart, unlike these citizens below sod. There was the date Kallum was born. The date he died. Bolt said it aloud. Nine months later, lightning split a pine tree and a woman died giving him life. Her last breath, taken in the arms of a priest. Exactly nine months between Kallum’s death and Bolt’s fiery birth. The logic was there if you were prepared to believe the unbelievable, which was his momentary tug-of-war. He wondered what telepathic or supernatural forces had led him here. What hand at his shoulder? The visions that plagued him as a child had always been disconnected fragments of some incomplete picture. There were also the subtle prompts of life. Last night in bed, the smell of Diana’s linen had triggered a warm familiarity. Nothing had smelled that good at the orphanage. Sounds, too. The creak of floorboards outside his room, like he was a teenager sneaking in past curfew. They had no connection to his past. He had no reason to relish them now.
Bolt planted his feet. The earth shimmered, like he was treading electrified dirt. The whisper of voices suddenly filled the air. They were the old and young, there in the damp earth, mortal coils resonating with the electrical echoes of the dead and gone. He was being serenaded by the souls that were once resident within those spent cocoons. There was no fear. It had to be another gift from his sideshow life, even though he had no truck with the dead.
He was tired. A headache was coming, maybe the start of a hangover.
“Gotta sit,” Bolt whispered, lowering himself to the foot of Kallum’s grave. Speaking to whom or what, he had no concept. A box of bones? The remnants of him? He fell back onto freshly cut grass and stared into the eternal black of a night sky. His entire life was finally being revealed, in the billions of star lights. The things that he could never understand were now becoming breathlessly clear, and as hard as they were to embrace, nothing else made sense.
Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.
Kallum had perished, all right. But like a breeze that ruffles hair, it sweeps on to the next, never really dying, because a gust of wind is forever, impossible to see, or touch, and always in motion.
Bolt could have laughed, but he wanted to cry, and as a a dying star sliced brilliantly across the heavens above, he surrendered to the sensation of plunging through cold earth to Kallum Doody’s deathly silent coffin.
28
Bolt woke from a deep sleep to the sound of three soft taps at his door. “Hold on,” he said, groggily. His feet found the floor. He shuffled to the door and opened it, squinting at the hallway light.
Liz smiled up at him, then dropped her eyes.
Bolt cupped himself and slammed the door. Quickly, he slipped on his underwear and jeans. He counted to five and then opened the door again. “Sorry,” he groaned.
“Not me,” Liz said mischievously. “Just sorry about waking you.”
“What time is it?”
“Early.” She walked past him to the bed, trailing body heat and some sensual fragrance. Daintily, she lifted his jacket. “Looks like you were rolling around in something last night.”
Sheepishly, he took the jacket.
“Just an observation,” she replied. “My second since the door opened.”
A heat came to his cheeks.
She was well put together, as usual, wearing a cream-coloured business suit that looked nice with her dark hair and olive skin. She radiated energy. Bolt finished dressing, waiting to hear the reason she was there so bloody early.
“I need a favour,” she said, lowering herself onto his bed.
It took a few minutes to explain, while her hand absently swept the duvet. An audio guy coming from New York was out of the game. Kidney stones or something. They had only thirty minutes till their shoot, and a replacement wouldn’t make it in time. According to Liz, they were in a jam. “There are strict union rules for an interview set-up. Producer, shooter, and audio. No audio guy, no shoot. I’m really screwed on this. It can’t be re-booked.”
“And?”
“What are you doing with your morning?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I never kid when my ass is on the line.”
Bolt toyed with the imagery, but the obvious needed pointing out.
“Union membership, no problem,” Liz said. “There’s a waiver ’cause we’re out of town. You’ll sign on as a freelance audio engineer, for which you’ll be paid.”
“You’re forgetting the most important part.”
“It’s not rocket science, Samuel,” she said. “You’ll basically pin on the microphones, and that’s it. You’d be saving my story and my career.”
Bolt was thinking about it.
“Pleeease.”
“How will you ever repay the debt?”
“I’ll find a way,” Liz said, batting eyelashes.
“Who’s the interview?”
“Sarah Rutter.”
“I’m in.”
Liz grabbed a large towel off the dresser and handed it to him.
Bolt’s heart skipped a beat. He was about to say something, when . . .
“Don’t wash too long, big boy. We haven’t got time.” Then she was out the door.
Bolt couldn’t avoid thinking about her while taking his shower. The result was immediate. He cast her out of mind, finished his time in the bathroom, and dressed. Ten minutes later, he met Liz downstairs.
She smiled warmly at him. “Thanks, Samuel. You’re my saviour.”
“No worries.”
A few minutes later, the car pulled up.
Jeff and Nigel looked like shit.
Bolt laughed when he saw them. “There’s a breakfast place down the road,” he said. “Runny eggs, rat sausages. Warm goat’s milk, slightly off. Fix you guys right up.”
Nigel urged. “Bastard.”
They stopped for coffee. Steaming cups for the four of them. Bolt laid his head back, sunshine warm on his face as he listened to Nigel talk. There’d be the interview first. Then a promised walkabout with Liz and the subject in the gardens. The house was generally off limits, except for the great room, where the interview would happen.
“Everyone good on the details,” Nigel asked.
Everyone nodded.
Nigel turned to Bolt. “I’m betting you don’t know how to handle a lavaliere.”
“What’s that?” Bolt grinned.
“Jesus, a wireless mic. You pin one on her and one on Liz. They’ll already be hot. Dress the cables so they’re not in the shot and you’re done. Jeff will ride levels. Got it?”
“Got it. When do I get paid?”
“Invoice me. And thanks for stepping up, Sam.” Nigel then turned to Jeff. “And don’t puke on the camera.”
Five minutes later, they turned off the highway onto a paved, tree-lined road. They drove for another few minutes and stopped at a large iron gate. There was an intercom and a camera. The gate opened. Jeff put the vehicle in drive, and thirty seconds afterwards they rolled to the front of the house.
The door opened as soon as they pulled up. A beanpole of a woman stepped out. Hawkish features, with dark hair swept from her face. Wearing thick, black-framed glasses. With not a trace of welcome, she checked a clipboard and only then ventured into the sunlight.
Two men followed her. Black suits and aviators. Bulges at the waist. Both watched closely as the visitors got out of the car. Liz offered her hand, along with an introduction.
“Rebecca,” came the reply. Their hands barely touched. “Mrs. Rutter will be down in ten minutes. She won’t be kept waiting.”
Liz smiled thinl
y and nodded.
“You have one hour,” said Rebecca, tapping her watch.
Jeff popped the trunk.
One of the Secret Service agents closed in and gave things a quick look over. Satisfied, he stepped back.
Jeff grabbed the camera and tripod. Bolt pulled a lighting kit and a hard-shelled case. Nigel slammed the trunk.
They followed Rebecca through the door and into a huge marble foyer. A sparkling chandelier hung like a planetary body, some icy, gravity-void moon, desolate to the point of tears. There was a giant painting of an old sailing ship on the wall. A sailor snarled at monstrous seas and beckoned all to a watery grave. Bolt stopped at it.
“I think I’m getting seasick,” Jeff said.
Bolt ignored him. Eyes locked, until Nigel tugged him away.
Rebecca walked them to the back of the house and into a magnificent living room. The cathedral ceiling ran thirty feet high with towering windows that overlooked a stunning landscape of gardens and, beyond, a shimmering sea. It felt ten degrees warmer here. Her watch was tapped again, which was the signal to get working.
Jeff and Nigel quickly agreed on a camera position with lots of natural light. Fill lights were assembled, and a reflector set up. A small table with a vase had to be repositioned.
Rebecca nodded a broad permission.
Two armchairs were then moved to face each other. The fill lights and the reflector were adjusted, and the camera was colour-balanced. Jeff gave them a thumbs-up.
With the preparations complete, Liz and Nigel conferred quietly.
Jeff snapped open the hard-shelled case containing the mics.
Bolt stepped away. Falling immediately under the gaze of the two Secret Service agents. He smiled weakly and turned to a group of photographs on the table behind him. The senator and Sarah smiled with the president in one. In another they were meeting the Queen. In one more, tribal children in an African village surrounded Sarah. She was handing out treats of some kind. Smiling more widely than the kids. In the largest of the pictures, Sarah was standing with the Dalai Lama. They were holding hands, while she looked admiringly into his face. Bolt felt a bit of a creep for pushing in on her treasured moments.