by Glen Carter
The terrain rose rapidly along Route 10, past farmland and thick Acadian forest, until the black, serpentine highway descended to sea level, revealing a rocky coastline that Bolt might have otherwise enjoyed, were it not for the cold metal that was suddenly jabbed into the base of his skull. Bolt jerked around, causing the car to swerve. For that he got a sharp rap on the head.
“Watch the road, motherfucker,” a deep voice said, pushing the gun barrel tighter.
Bolt did as he was told. One eye on the highway, the other on the rear-view mirror. The man’s face was covered except for bloodshot eyes, buried in deep, bony sockets. A grey crewcut.
“My wallet’s in my pants,” Bolt said. “I’ll pull over. Let’s do this right.”
“Don’t need your fucking money.”
The guy leaned forward. The stink of booze and tobacco soaked his kerchief. “Fuck me if you’re not a dead ringer,” he slurred.
“What do you want?”
The man snickered, coughed up phlegm. “Your daddy was a cunt. Got what he deserved.”
Bolt squeezed both hands on the wheel. Knuckles drained of blood.
“Tried to steal my girl. I showed her. Would have showed him, too, but he got lucky. Good thing he got killed in I-raq.”
“Why don’t we pull over? Figure this out?”
“Shut your mouth and drive. Else I splatter your brains.”
Bolt tried to pluck some workable option from the jumble in his head. He applied pressure to the gas pedal. If there was a cop anywhere, he’d get pulled over.
“Slow down,” the man commanded with another rap against Bolt’s skull.
Fuck you. You hillbilly sack of shit. He wanted to join the guy in the back seat. Shove that gun down his throat. “Where are we going?”
“I’ll let you know when we get there, sonny boy.”
The guy sat back. Gun in his lap. Bolt glanced into the mirror while the scenery flashed by. Signs of civilization thinned and then disappeared altogether, leaving only the highway skirting a dark, ragged coastline. One thing was certain. Getting there was a bad idea. Bolt glanced into the rear-view, trying to take the measure of him. Hooded, rheumy eyes. The broken-down slouch. Good indicators his better days were over. The booze on his breath was fresh, like the tobacco. Adrenaline was spiking in Bolt’s blood, sharpening his senses. Grey skies hung low, the pavement zipped by. His fingers dug into the wheel. Time was bleeding away. Bolt stole another look in the rearview. The guy wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Of course, he wouldn’t be. In the next second, Bolt made the shittiest decision he had ever had to make. He tightened his restraint and sucked in a big breath, and with a flick of his wrist, the car veered sharply and was instantly airborne. After the eternity of a pair of seconds, the car’s hood crumpled as they crashed into the water. Bolt’s head slammed against the steering wheel. Then, everything went black.
He came to, gasping for air, with icy water to his chest. The car was sinking fast. Bolt grabbed for the door handle and fumbled at his seat belt. He pounded his shoulder into the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he remembered. The car would have to fill before he could get out. The water was already at his chin, a second later, lapping against his lips. One more breath and his face submerged in icy black. The door finally nudged open, and Bolt pulled himself out. Rising to the light, he broke the surface and gasped. His entire body was numb, dead limbs uselessly slapping at the water. He was descending again. Alongside the sinking car, that monster of a death trap was headed to the bottom. Adrenaline sluiced through his veins, which got his arms going. Slopping one hand in front of the other, inches at a time, his feet finally touched slippery rocks. A minute after that, Bolt collapsed in a pile of seaweed at the water’s edge.
* * * * *
An hour later, Bolt was shivering and still trying to figure it out. The guy had been lying in wait, all coiled up in the back seat with a gut full of booze and his gun. No one got carjacked in Harbour Rock. Why him?
He brought a cup of coffee to his cheek and was warmed by the rising steam. He was bare-skinned beneath an itchy woollen blanket, his wet clothes dumped and dripping in the back of the ambulance. He watched blankly as they hoisted a body bag to a gurney, thankful they’d need only one. The heap was wheeled into the back of a coroner’s van, idling at the side of the road. A sheriff’s deputy swaggered toward him, flipping open a notebook like he was about to take a lunch order.
“Bolt?”
“Yup.”
“You’re not from around here.”
“I’ve already spoken to the other officer,” Bolt replied.
The cop frowned. “Charlie kind of had his hands full pulling you out of the water, and he didn’t get a chance to write anything down.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m betting you’re not having a great day.”
Bolt told him everything there was to tell, which wasn’t much.
“And you have no idea what he was after?”
Bolt shook his head.
The deputy asked more questions and then closed his notebook, took his sweet time capping his pen while he digested Bolt’s thin account of the ordeal.
“What about you guys,” Bolt asked, nodding toward the coroner’s vehicle.
The deputy’s face lightened ever so slightly. “He’s known to us.”
“Can I ask how?”
The officer considered the question. He took a soggy wallet from his coat. It was stuffed with cash. “Rory Prichard,” he said, flipping it open. “A hardcase. The last time he tried to kill someone, he was swinging a bat. He did some time, got paroled, and has been drunk ever since. He was a nuisance and not the smartest, but there was nothing like this before. I’d say he wanted your cash except it looks like he had plenty. You’re lucky to be alive, sir.”
The name meant nothing. Bolt glanced over the deputy’s shoulder. A pair of divers coming out of the water. One of them was holding a netted bag, which he handed to Charlie. Charlie gave a thumbs-up.
“That would be Rory’s revolver,” the deputy said. “I’ll check, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t have a permit. Rory preferred his shotgun. In the meantime, Mister Bolt, we’re gonna make sure his prints are the only ones on it. You sure you’re telling me everything?”
Bolt nodded.
“We’ll be in touch.”
Bolt dumped the dregs from his cup and sat there shivering. A moment later a cab pulled up behind the ambulance. It was Sully and Abe. Bolt grabbed his soaked clothing and slipped on his wet shoes. He told the deputy thanks and promised to return the blanket.
“Keep it. Have a nice day.”
Bolt climbed in the cab. Both friends turned in their seats, bookends of shock and worry. Another coffee was parked in front of him, which Bolt took.
Sully dipped his head to watch the coroner’s van lumber away. “Charlie’s wife at the coffee shop heard that scumbag Rory Prichard carjacked some tourist.”
“Got what was coming to him,” Abe added. He passed back a pile of warm, dry clothes and said, “Diana’s frantic. Ironed one of your shirts, the good woman she is.”
Bolt shed his blanket and dressed.
An hour later. Abe couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. “Karma’s a witch.”
They were back aboard his boat. Bolt pulled on a thick, dry sock. “You mean a bitch.”
“Both.” Abe laughed.
Bolt was told all he needed to know about Rory Prichard. The beating he gave his girlfriend so many years ago, Kallum saving her life, and the pummelling that Prichard would never forget. Brain injuries were like that.
“He was a mean bastard,” Sully said. “Meaner when his brains got scrambled.”
“Kept to himself, mostly,” Abe added. “Did he say anything? I mean besides you got a purdy mouth.” Abe was e
njoying the moment.
Bolt didn’t find it funny. “He said my daddy was a cunt.”
“I’ll bet he did,” Sully said. “Prichard never forgot, and he certainly never forgave. The guy had no remorse in him.”
“My guess is he was looking to even that old score,” Abe threw in. “He figured you as Kallum’s son. It wouldn’t matter. Appalachian justice works that way. That’s where Rory was shit out.”
Old grudge? Maybe, Bolt thought. But a little extreme. Why not just corner him somewhere? Throw a punch and be done with it. Prichard was motivated by more than old wounds. “He had a wad on him,” said Bolt. “And a big shiny gun.”
Abe and Sully exchanged confused looks. “Man didn’t have two cents to his name,” said Abe.
“The food bank kept him in meatballs and gravy,” Sully added.
Then the cash was a big red flag.
“Whaddaya thinking,” asked Abe. “That Rory was on someone’s payroll?”
Bolt told them about Diana’s visitor, the bureau man who claimed Bolt was targeting Diana for a swindle. “I thought you should know,” she had said. “Be careful, Samuel.”
Abe showed his surprise. “Christ. Obviously you’re on someone’s radar. Maybe Prichard was recruited. He would have been motivated bigly.”
Bigly motivated. To do what? Bolt thought again about the damning evidence of Rutter’s deeds in Iraq, from a source unknown. Prichard was another bloody mystery. Who knew what he had in mind, and on who’s dime?
Someone’s cellphone went off. It was Sully’s. He reached into his pocket and answered the call. “Hold on.” Sully passed the phone to Bolt and shrugged.
Bolt put the phone to his ear and listened for a minute or so, then hung up and passed the phone back.
“Well?”
“Deputy says the serial number on Prichard’s gun was filed off, and no prints except his.”
“Nice and sanitized,” said Abe. “Believe me, Rory wasn’t that smart.”
“There’s something else,” Bolt said, grimly. “They found a hole dug behind a barn on Prichard’s property.” Bolt paused. “Big enough for a body.”
43
Stop and go. The limos and SUVs snaked bumper to bumper along the driveway leading to the front of the Vanderson house. Valets tried to keep up, but it was gridlock. At a security station, Secret Service agents checked briefcases and IDs, and only then were the Republicans cleared to enter.
Stoffer watched from just inside the door, shaking hands with the arriving devotees and apologizing for the overzealous security. Then, with Rebecca leading the way, they were shuffled in small clusters to the vast lawn at the back of the home. When the last of the guests were processed, Stoffer joined the herd.
Of course, none of the bigwigs came alone. Each had a sycophant or two, and when they were figured into the mix, the crowd was enormous. At one side of the grounds there were several smoky barbeques, while here and there smartly dressed bartenders served icy beverages from large aluminum tubs.
Stoffer wouldn’t permit himself to be sucked into conversation until he had the lay of the land. The committee chairman from Texas was holding court with a pair of congressmen. A missile manufacturer in their state was expanding, and the Texan was being touted as a possible Secretary of Defense. His assistant, a blonde in tight jeans and cowboy boots, was taking notes. A governor had a handful of partisan ducklings in his wake, headed for the food tent. State polls spelled his electoral doom, and he was aiming for Homeland Security. The swordplay was routine, but at the end of the day, Stoffer wouldn’t allow it to dominate. There was strategy to be decided heading into the home stretch. Everyone had something to say, some critical need or pressing issue. The media were camped out on the highway, but they’d eventually be shuffled in for Rutter’s speech to the troops.
Stoffer wiped his brow, made his way to one of the bartenders, and ordered a diet soda with extra ice. He was about to take his first sip when a hand landed on his shoulder. It was the front-runner for the job of Attorney General. A former JAG prosecutor named Gordon Lilly who managed an impressive record jailing rapists and drug offenders in the corp. He had the rank for Judge Advocate General, though he was holding out for the bigger, better deal. He looked around before opening his mouth. “We should talk,” he said, conspiratorially.
Stoffer followed him to the shade of a large oak tree. “You’ve got five minutes.”
Lilly got right to the point. “The media’s sniffing around Rutter’s service record.”
“The media can find out anything they want on the Internet,” Stoffer replied.
“Not everything. The shit that went down with his buddies in that prison. The rescue. That’s classified, for now.”
“Explain for now.”
“An FOIA application has been filed.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Source?”
“A friend. The Pentagon,” Lilly replied. “Rock-solid reliable.”
“Who’s doing the asking?”
“Some network muckraker. They’re all the same. It’ll take some time, but he’s also going back channels, hoping some fucking archivist with a hard-on for our man will circumvent the protocols and leak the goods in a brown paper bag. The place is lousy with lefties.”
Stoffer wouldn’t reveal his concern. The more he did, the more entitled the man would feel. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said instead.
Vigorously, Lilly shook Stoffer’s hand. Several heads turned their way as the next Attorney General strode off.
Stoffer considered the new information. Twenty-five years later and someone was fishing. Was it a coincidence that a man named Bolt was on the scene with wild allegations, which he’d already shared with the senator’s wife? Stoffer saw the train wreck coming. His cellphone pinged. He tossed his drink into a bush and brought the device to his face. It was a text from Ryan containing a link to one of the local radio stations. Nothing more. Stoffer tapped the link and was taken to the station website. There was a photograph of a car being winched from the ocean, water gushing from its windows. Stoffer grimaced at the headline. harbour rock man killed in accident. second man survives. More details were promised. Stoffer steadied himself against the oak and scanned the crowd, relieved that no one was looking in his direction. Then he walked to one of the bar tables. “Scotch,” he said. “A double, no ice.”
* * * * *
Slowly, and with the sensitivity it demanded, Bolt informed Abe and Sully about a video that Diana received that morning. In the video, Kallum Doody, their dear friend, and three other soldiers were killed in cold blood. Not by their Iraqi captors, as they had always been told, but by Billy Rutter. The videos source was unknown. A major news network was keen to acquire it.
Neither demanded that Bolt stop with his cruel bullshit. The veracity of the revelation was strangely unchallenged, which meant both men considered it within Rutter’s capabilities. Sully stared at him, for a long time, before the first tear rolled down his cheek. Abe didn’t speak, but his eyes were black with rage.
Sully’s cellphone rang again.
Sully answered. It was Liz. He handed over the phone.
“Bad news,” she told Bolt. “The network won’t touch the video.”
What the hell?
“It’s the lawyers,” she added. “They say the liability is enormous. If we air the tape, Rutter will probably end up owning the network. Nigel has threatened to quit, but that means nada to the bean-counters.”
“They’re seriously passing on it?”
“The Internet geeks at the network have also been unable to source the email. I know. It sucks,” Liz said. “Sorry, Samuel. Gotta go.”
Bolt laid it all out for Abe and Sully.
Abe spat a mouthful of expletives.
Then the phone rang once more. Bolt listened for a while and then hung up. A look of grim satisfaction appeared on his face.
“Come on, Abe. We’ve got a gig.”
* * * * *
The service entrance at the side of the house was no less fortified than the front. Abe and Bolt waited patiently while the Secret Service checked a couple of the catering staff with large stainless-steel food containers. Behind them, a guy in rubber boots and coveralls carried a pan full of fish. Abe and Bolt were next. IDs were demanded and checked against a list. Sarah had guaranteed they’d be on it. Bolt was told to remove his hat and sunglasses, which he did cordially, and then, like Abe, a metal wand was swept over his outstretched arms. Abe’s guitar case and amplifier were taken aside for a thorough inspection by a bomb-sniffing dog. When the beast’s handler was satisfied, he pointed, without a word, to the equipment at their feet. Abe grabbed the case and nodded at Bolt, who picked up the amp.
They were directed inside, to a large mud room, which was set up as a staging area for the waiters. Bolt jumped back to allow another tray out the door, expertly balanced by a young girl in a cute little uniform. She was stopped by a hawkish woman with a clipboard and, after a cursory examination, was allowed to proceed. It was Rebecca. Bolt tensed, tugged his hat lower, and whispered something to Abe.
“Keep your head down,” Abe said.
Rebecca spotted them quickly, and while Bolt pretended to be checking the amp, she walked over.
“You would be the entertainment,” she said with excreted sarcasm.
“You got it,” said Abe.
Rebecca turned her attention to Bolt. Wrinkles cut her forehead, and behind those unbreakable eyes, he realized she was trying to place him. He simply smiled.