Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  The group digested, glumly.

  "There's five days left in the POTUS's vacation schedule," Hanley reminded them. "Security-wise, every day's gotten worse. I got a call this morning from the FBI's Joint Terrorism Task Force, notifying me they're sending a team to ride herd on the domestic terror groups in town. They've been hearing the reports and don't want to look like they missed the boat."

  That didn't surprise Pepper. New Albion had become ground zero for too broad a range of high-profile chaos. He wondered if the beach rioters and other bad actors in town were somehow connected to the red starfish killer? Or was the whole mess just an unrelated convergence of President Garby's enemies, sharing nothing but their hatred for the president?

  "But the worst part for me?” continued Hanley. “This red starfish wacko’s playing with us. He's right nearby but he's invisible. He kills then disappears. And kind of mocking us at the same time, with that crap about wanting his candy back… It's like he's following some loony playbook developed over a long time and we're only reacting. And mostly just chasing our own fucking tail for his entertainment."

  "We'll get him, boss," said Alfson.

  "No doubt. But we have to get him before he gets the POTUS. And right now I don't feel too damn confident."

  "Did I pay for that?" Mr. Smith asked weakly, pointing at his laptop with a shaky finger. The billionaire was sitting at his desk in his shadowed bedroom in his bright burgundy bathrobe. Lizzie Concepcion noticed he was still losing weight. She'd have to bring in his tailor to fix up some clothes right away.

  She had already read that riot story online. The press was wallowing in the chaos. Gushing lots of blame on local law enforcement's inadequacies, as well as President Garby's poisonous presence… "Well sir," she answered with a smile he probably couldn't see. "You wanted the president to have a miserable vacation…it looks like you're not the only one who feels that way!"

  Lizzie knew that despite Mr. Smith's painful decline, he still got a kick out of being in control. And that included seeing the president suffer. Yesterday Mr. Smith had spent a few minutes alone with the president and Mr. Smith had told her everything later, in rich detail. The President had very quickly shifted from pleasantries and small talk to begging for money. He'd asked Smith to contribute $90 million for super PAC financing and $10 million for Garby's presidential library. Smith had been teasingly noncommittal, making the President of the United States beg and beg. Then Mr. Smith had left him in limbo to wait for a decision. So, the more misery the better, right?

  "What a weasel!" laughed Mr. Smith—a thin, sandpaper squeak.

  Lizzie jumped on his good mood to share some less happy news, which she accompanied with a light shoulder rub. "You got a call from Brandon Blacklock," she said. The star portfolio manager had demanded to speak to Smith but Lizzie had lied, said he was asleep. The fat slob had been his usual belligerent, condescending self with her, but his voice had had an unusual urgency. Almost a panic. "He said he needs to talk to you in person. Said he'll fly up tomorrow."

  "Did he say what about?"

  "He wouldn't tell me. But I hear he's been fighting with the trading desk, so maybe he just wants to vent."

  Smith coughed. "Fly here to vent? No, he wants to see for himself how close I am to dead. And maybe if there's anything he can do to speed me along. Count on it, he'll be the next traitor trying to grab my company…"

  Blacklock and Mr. Smith hadn't been on good relations since the presidential election when Mr. Smith had heavily backed Garby and Blacklock had very publicly—and financially—supported Garby's opponent. It'd caused quite a fuss within Smith Enterprises and also in the financial press. It didn't help that Mr. Smith probably realized by now that Blacklock had been right about that weasel Garby. "Well, we'll see when he gets here." Lizzie gently changed the topic by sliding onto his lap a small pile of documents for signature. Actually, Blacklock had said what about. The slob had threatened to drop a dime to the feds about Turnstone Fund's recent wire activity unless Smith agreed to two things. One, to implement operational changes on the development fund, specifically so there'd be no future wire activity unless authorized by Blacklock, as portfolio manager. And two, the real bullet—to publicly name Blacklock as Smith's successor at Smith Enterprises, with transition to begin immediately.

  Well, there was no way Lizzie was going to deliver those ultimatums to Mr. Smith herself! She'd told Blacklock to hop on the jet and come to Eagle's Nest himself. She hadn't gone so far as to call him a traitorous coward, but she said enough, in a pretty obnoxious tone, that it may have been implied…

  Let him try his darn blackmail face-to-face with Mr. Smith, if the arrogant whale actually showed up. Because Lizzie was betting he wouldn't…

  "What the fuck do you mean, cancel the Fourth of July?" asked President Garby.

  Today he'd been golfing but his drive back to Eagle's Nest had been messed up by another damn illegal protest. Five semi-truck trailers displaying large pictures of Americans killed by illegal immigrants had been parked blocking Shore Road 400 yards short of the first Secret Service checkpoint. The drivers had disconnected their trailers and sabotaged the hookup mechanisms. Each trailer was guarded by dozens of activists. It took two hours to clear the mob and haul the trailers away.

  And not a mile away, a riot had broken out on the beach right when he was supposed to be driving past in his twenty vehicle caravan. The press had split in half to cover both the blockade and the riot. This shit was red meat for those jackals.

  Garby's limousine, The Beast, had been re-routed to Chatham Municipal Airport, where he was picked up by Marine One and helicoptered back to Eagle's Nest. He was beyond pissed. And he was still raw from the jerking around he'd gotten from Smith after he took the time to present those financial support opportunities.

  Now Garby was sequestered with his core presidential staff and Special Agent in Charge Hanley. He glared at Hanley with his full Leader of the Free World wattage. Who did this punk think he was?

  "Not cancel the Fourth of July, sir," said Hanley. "Just your attendance at the fireworks."

  Acker Smith had paid for a fireworks display to be held tomorrow night off New Albion that would be bigger and better than anywhere else in America. Around 55,000 shells. And all in Garby's honor. It'd been trumpeted in the press and huge crowds were expected to swarm to the area to watch.

  "So you're saying the only place you can keep me safe is locked up here? Is that what you told your bosses?"

  "A package arrived at Eagle's Nest in today's mail, addressed to you. Again with a copy of the Declaration of Independence, with tomorrow's date printed on it and RIP Garby again. And the sentence: I want my candy! The package held one high-caliber bullet, a .308. And another red starfish. I gave my assessment to Deputy Director Lawrence. Then to Director Kerpitki. Our best assessment is we have a very specific, very credible threat of an assassination attempt to be made on your life sometime during the Fourth. My recommendation is you shouldn't appear in public tomorrow unless we've arrested the unsubs. For your safety, and your family's."

  Garby felt an icy finger of fear slide up his spine. He could almost feel what a .308 bullet would be like, tearing into his chest, ripping him apart, killing him. Who was this red starfish wacko—one of those wack-job activists? And why hadn't they caught him yet?

  Deep breath.

  I'm the most powerful man in the world.

  I'm the most powerful man in the world.

  His mantra didn't completely thaw the ice that'd spread up his spine to his neck, but it helped a bit. Frankly, the whole thing was bullshit. Some shithead wanted their candy? Garby didn't even eat sweets, he didn't know what the hell that could be about. And Garby had never even seen a red starfish before, except maybe on a school trip to the aquarium? He faintly recalled that as a lowly senator he'd dated a redhead with a fish tattoo at the very top of her thigh… No, that had to have been an octopus, in that private spot, right? He smothered a burst of horniness an
d set his face in a mask of boredom and disgust. "Well, let me give you some advice," he growled at Hanley. "Do your job. It's to protect me, isn't it? Is that too much to ask?"

  That'd shut Hanley up.

  What kind of a man would Garby look like, hiding away, scared of his own shadow? Was that how they wanted him to be seen? He pressed his hands in his golf grip and made a mini-swing. Muscle memory. That was the key to running the world and being able to shoot in the high seventies at the same time.

  "Just so we're clear," said Garby digging deep for his most presidential timbre. "I'm not changing any plans. Not canceling any public outings. Smith's fireworks'll be the most expensive goddamn display since the Beijing Olympics. He'd be pissed if I blew it off, rightly so. But I have a solution—Smith offered us his yacht for the show. You can sweep it from stern to poop deck, whatever security you think necessary as long as your folks don't ruin the party. And I don't want to read in the papers or goddamn Twitter about this so-called threat. No leaks. If you're not with me, step aside for someone who's up to the job, got it? Lucky for you I'm an optimist."

  "Yes sir," said Hanley, but still looking like he'd sucked a lemon.

  What an asshole!

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Zula Eisenhower was headed out the front door to work when she was almost bowled over by Pepper's dad. Gerry Ryan was fired up, almost non-verbal.

  But he apologized, explained. He'd just gotten a call on his cell phone, from Reverend McDevitt. The man had said if he came over to the property the Weepers were renting in New Albion, the Reverend would tell him who'd destroyed the Ryan family house.

  "Since he's a snake, sounds like he's setting you up somehow?" asked Zula.

  "Of course it's a setup. But he knows I'll show up anyway, right?"

  God, the Ryans. "I'll drive you," she insisted, but looking at her watch. "You'll need a friendly witness, in case you knock him out again."

  So they drove in Zula's red Jeep Wrangler to the waterfront address that Gerry Ryan had been given. On the way, she called her pop, told him where they were going and could he tell Barbara she'd be late to Dispatch? Her pop insisted on talking to Gerry Ryan, apparently trying to talk him out of confronting McDevitt. Too quickly, the call ended. Man, Gerry Ryan looks just like Pepper, right now…

  But Zula was otherwise enjoying the drive in her Wrangler—sunny Fourth of July, no top, no doors. They passed Hogan Beach and were slowed by thick traffic. The beach area was full to beyond bursting. The Hogan Beach riot was apparently forgotten. It was a peaceful swarm of families, coolers and sand buckets--the whole mess of casual fun which defined her summer world. The main reason she came home every summer when her friends were now getting jobs in Boston or New York.

  "Chief Ryan, do you have any old favors waiting at the State Police Lab?"

  "Up in Maynard? I do, if the tech I know hasn't retired."

  Zula told him about the white powder that Pepper asked her to have analyzed ASAP and that she wasn't having any luck. They'd told her they were swamped. Her civilian title hadn't impressed them either.

  "Why didn't Pepper have the Secret Service analyze it, if it's such a rush?"

  "You know Pepper—he says little and explains less. Maybe he wants to one-up that Alfson?"

  "That's probably the most innocent excuse… If you give me the control number, I'll give my friend a call."

  They passed St. Jude's Cemetery. Then Zula was detoured away from the ocean for two miles to avoid the area closed to traffic due to the president's stay at Eagle's Nest. She cut back down and rejoined Shore Road on the other side.

  "None of my business," said Gerry Ryan, "but what's going on with you and Pepper?"

  Zula had been wondering the same thing, wished she knew. "Nothing. He's day and night with the Clambake investigation."

  "And that Maddie Smith, right?" But saying her name like he wasn't too impressed.

  Zula felt her face turning hot. Mercifully, they'd arrived at the address so Zula didn't have to answer.

  The Weeper rental was an impressive oceanside vacation estate. Long driveway from the road to a large, split-level house. Maybe a $5 - 10 million property? If Zula owned a place like this, she'd never rent it out, especially to insects like the Weepers.

  A large, handmade sign by the road said 'Free Clambake Today!'

  "Shit," said Gerry Ryan.

  There were cars parked in a long line up and down both sides of the driveway. Even three television trucks, parked on the lawn. Nothing on the street, it was all self-contained to the property.

  A tall, skinny guy in his twenties with too much brown hair waved them in, gesturing theatrically toward the end of the row of parked cars.

  "Funny the Weepers rented a fancy house like this," commented Zula. "Their home base is only a couple hours away, I'd have thought they'd commute to cause their trouble."

  Gerry Ryan snorted. "McDevitt's gotten filthy rich from his hate crimes—let's hope he's only renting…"

  In the backyard, a picnic of sorts was in full swing. It was a classic Cape Cod scene. A long lawn led down to the shore, where there was a light blue boathouse, a pier and a large motor cruiser. The lawn was thick with a good-sized crowd—100 people? Many were sitting in circles on the grass, eating. Others were milling around. Half the crowd was standing close to a low stage, and a man was addressing them, microphone in hand. It was Reverend McDevitt. He was flanked by five women, ranging in age from mid-teens to forties. Was one of them his wife? Some of the teens, his daughters? They were all hanging on his speech, leading the clapping and cheering. Cult cheerleaders?

  Zula saw three TV teams with handheld cameras, shooting footage.

  "And now the President of the United States is among us, in this very town!" McDevitt was saying. "The sinner-in-chief! But does he stand with us?"

  Loud jeers from the crowd. Everyone had something to hate about President Wayne Garby.

  "Does he stand up for what's right and just? Whoremongers and adulterers, God will judge!"

  Even louder cheering from the crowd.

  "Brutality!" Reverend McDevitt continued. "Surely oppression maketh a wise man mad! And in this town, the poison passes down from father to son. Police brutality by their Chief of Police Ryan, who resigned in disgrace. And his son, Officer Pepper Ryan, killed a suspect nine years ago in the most reckless fashion. Of course, the son paid no price. Look it up!"

  "Shit," said Gerry Ryan. Clenched jaw, clenched fists. Looked like he was going to rush the stage.

  "And ladies and gentlemen. God's children. Look who now stands among us! There in the back. It's former Chief Ryan. Look at the anger, the devil's fingerprints on his face!"

  Most of the people turned to Gerry Ryan and Zula. The cameras. All of the crowd's energy.

  "He comes here in anger. His house was destroyed recently and revenge is on his face. But the Bible tells us who tore down this sinner's temple! The Lord destroyed the house of the proud, and blessed is the word of the Lord. So it was written in Proverbs!"

  Zula had Pepper's dad by the arm now, physically holding him back from moving toward the stage. He was talking to himself, quiet but hard, too low for Zula to catch the words.

  She saw a dozen or so Weepers moving from the stage front toward them, threading through the crowd.

  "Time to go," she said in Gerry Ryan's ear, jerking his arm. And miracle of miracles, he followed.

  Zula had reached her desk, taken a quick thirty-second verbal beating by Barbara for being late, and logged in before Lieutenant Hurd descended on the Dispatch pen.

  "Hello, Zula."

  "Oh, hey Lieutenant." Keeping her voice chill.

  "We got a call this morning from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Financial Crimes Unit. They're interested why a local police station queried FinCEN's database about an entity called Scoter and its associated persons. They'd like to hear more about our investigation. I said I didn't know anything about it, so I probably sounded pretty stupid�
��"

  Shit. She'd feared the entity Scoter, Inc. might be a time bomb since the President of the United States was a listed officer… What the hell'd Pepper gotten her to step in this time? "Well, it's for the Keser case."

  "What's up with it?"

  "Nothing much yet. Nothing to report."

  "Well, maybe you can be a little more open with your father how FinCEN's database is relevant to a Secret Service agent's murder. Especially since he told you not to spend any time helping Pepper on that investigation? Can you tell him what you're up to, before one of us loses our job?" Hurd shook his head, left. More muttering and abuse from Barbara followed.

  Double shit.

  And then of course, a few minutes later, Pepper cornered her too.

  He gave her that smile and it worked. Made her chest tighten, like a silly schoolgirl. Idiot!

  "Hurd's on the warpath about me and I saw him poking his nose over here," Pepper said, keeping his voice quiet. "He wasn't giving you crap for helping me, was he?"

  "Pepper, you don't need to..."

  "No. You've been great. And your father too, supporting my dad's footwork investigating the house demo."

  So she had to tell him about the Weeper clambake, McDevitt's public slandering of him and his dad, the TV crews, the whole thing.

  "Thanks for going with him…my family can't stay out of trouble, looks like." He looked humbled and she was surprised to realize that she didn't like that look on him. She wanted to hug him right there and then. Instead, she came back too snappish.