Oliver waited for another half-hour, just to be sure. Then he scootched slowly and silently out from under the bed. Uncapped the needle. Shot the Atricurium right into the sleeping lieutenant's neck. Held the man's shoulders down to make sure the dose took him. Called Croke to come get them the hell out of there.
The police lieutenant woke slowly. Badly. His hands were zip-tied together behind his back around a metal pole built into a sleeve in the boat shed's concrete floor. He was wearing his ridiculous white undies, a t-shirt and one sock.
"How do you feel?" Oliver asked him.
The man suddenly leaned to one side and threw up. Almost splashed on Oliver's foot.
Oliver knew Atricurium packed a wallop, so wasn't surprised.
"Let me introduce myself," he said, giving the lieutenant a sharp kick, carefully avoiding the puke zone. "I'm Oliver."
Croke chuckled. He was pacing back and forth, impatient. "And you don't need to know me," he said, stopping to lean in close to the man. "But I bet we owe you one for that motel raid."
Not to mention having to hide under the lieutenant's sex romp, thought Oliver. Which he was never going to tell Croke about.
"You know I'm a cop?" asked Hurd, still sounding very groggy. "Maybe we can work something out? I'm tight with someone with a lot of money."
Oliver laughed. "You know, I think maybe that's who paid us already."
Hurd cleared his throat and spat at them, but his meager spittle didn't get further than his lower lip. Just hung there. "Alright you dickless wonders," he said. "Do your goddamn worst."
So Oliver and Croke did.
Oliver was pretty relaxed the next morning, despite having spent a sweaty night on an air mattress in the boat shed. Made him almost miss the Sanddollar motel.
He was waiting with Croke at a pier in Chatham to pick up a man. Their next gig. They waited in their newest stolen ride, a large Lincoln sedan. Perfect for a fake limo service.
And Oliver was feeling pretty invincible. Not like a dickless wonder, at all. More like a deadly ghost, moving around the area. No wonder law enforcement hadn't really come close to catching them yet.
Oliver was also in a giddy mood because he was picturing the reaction in the Queens cheese shop (such a terribly thin cover for their bosses' criminal activities) when later that morning they would open the small package that contained a severed hand, carefully arranged prior to rigor mortis to deliver a one-finger salute. Worth every damn penny for the private courier. In a way, the 'hand delivery' simplified Oliver's future decisions—he had to get big money now because he would absolutely have to take off, far from them and their inevitable attempt for vengeance. Because seriously, they had no sense of humor.
It also helped Oliver's mood that he and Croke could handle this job on dry ground—even the sight of the ocean brought up bad memories. The man they were waiting for was easy to recognize when he finally arrived, exactly as described—nautical uniform and bushy mustache. Oliver and Croke were not easy to recognize—both were heavily disguised due to the grainy but accurate pictures of them being blasted on the TV news. The pictures must have been from the Sanddollar? Were there security cameras Oliver hadn't seen?
Oliver held the door as their job climbed into the backseat. Then he discretely uncapped his needle and gave it a flick.
Chapter Forty-Six
Lieutenant Dwayne Hurd reappeared later that Thursday morning. At least, partially.
The Boston Globe received a package by private courier containing Hurd's left arm. They knew immediately it belonged to a man named Hurd because it was accompanied by a polite note identifying him. Signed only with what appeared to be a drawing of a starfish. Red ink.
His right arm (handless) arrived at Fox News.
His head was found by two German tourists on the top step of Rodger's Light.
The media went apeshit. Every news outlet--nationally--was showing a map of the eastern seaboard, labeling the various locations where Lieutenant Hurd's body pieces had popped up. The only parts unaccounted for were his torso and his right hand. And what was with the red starfish—some kind of tag for the serial killer? Why wouldn't the police comment?
The New Albion police station--deep in shock--became the epicenter. Everyone was freaking about Lieutenant Hurd. News trucks surrounded the police station, digging for information. And gore.
Then it got worse, after about an hour. Reporters were asking, could the Chief of Police confirm or deny the new allegation that Hurd was dirty? And word had leaked that Officer Pepper Ryan was suspended—could the Chief confirm that action and whether Ryan's suspension related to Lieutenant Hurd's dismemberment?
Pepper was sitting in civilian clothes and his Red Sox ball cap in Broken Dreams Antiques and Pizza, mechanically toying with a couple of slices. He couldn't eat—he was too sick to his stomach about Lieutenant Hurd. Even if the rumors were true and Hurd had been taking money under the table and spilling confidential info. If he was dirty, what else that'd gone wrong in the last couple weeks could be his fault? Maybe it explained Hurd's obstinate lack of effort on the home demolition case? Maybe it explained things that were even worse. Pepper needed a pause to rethink recent events in light of Hurd's involvement but events had been unfolding too fast and time was clearly running out.
But what could Pepper do to help—suspended and disgraced? He was overdue at the police station, where he was supposed to turn in his Glock that he'd retrieved from his truck's lockbox. He'd also received a voice message from Edwina Youngblood at the FBI—to call her back about the research he requested on Turnstone and Scoter. If he called, what would he have to tell her about his new job status? Pepper was procrastinating from both those opportunities for high embarrassment when his phone rang.
"Officer Ryan?" The voice was a little high. A bit cracked. "Guess who?"
Perfect. Guessing games while his pizza was getting cold. "I wouldn't know where to start," he replied. And at that moment Pepper saw Zula enter Broken Dreams and begin to weave her way back toward Pepper's table.
"Then you lose again! It's Rowboat Willie. You said call, right? I think I can help you out, if maybe there's a little cash in it for me?"
"Help me?" How could the looney homeless guy help him?
"I bet I can take you to the dudes who chopped up that lieutenant from the bar. And you know I don't lose bets!" Laughter, high and thin. "But it's gotta be right now before we're too late. Down at the Rogers Lighthouse parking lot. Just you. It's hard to know who to trust these days, you know?"
Pepper pondered a second. What's the worst that could happen--fifteen minutes wasted? And whatever lead Pepper got, he could pass it to Chief Eisenhower when he surrendered his handgun. Make some tiny amends, right? "I'll be right there. Let me just toss the rest of my dinner in the trash."
"Hey—eat, drink and be merry," advised Rowboat Willie. "For tomorrow you may diet!" Rowboat's laughter was cut off as he hung up.
Zula had reached his table and was staring at him, hands on her hips. "Pepper, you're not stupid enough to be working cases, right? Not while suspended?"
Pepper stood and looked into her big, accusatory eyes. Gave her a gentle hug. "Little Ike, how could I forget that? I gotta go."
"Hang on, what'd you think I came here for, a calzone? I got a call from the State Police Lab. Your dad helped get that little envelope of white powder tested in record time. But you guessed wrong—it wasn't some recreational drug. It was arsenic trioxide!"
Arsenic?!? Why would Smith's cancer patient guest have an arsenic stockpile? Who was he poisoning? Or who was he about to poison…!
Zula continued. "Your sample was way less than a lethal dose, the tech said. But still…where'd you get it?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow over dinner, my treat. I promise." Pepper hurried out.
Pepper's dad called as Pepper drove toward the meet-up with Rowboat Willie.
"Son, are you okay? I heard what happened at Eagle's Nest, some of it! Where are you?" His voic
e quick with panic.
Pepper couldn't recall ever hearing his dad that way and it scared him. "Dad, I'm fine. Off the job again, so someone in the office pool won that bet. But I'm 100% okay."
"Glad to hear it. Don called to say the feds backed off, so that's a good break. But I didn't know where you were. And I got a phone message about the home demo investigation that might lift your spirits. Didn't you say a few days ago that your whistleblower mentioned an entity called 'Turnstone'? I just got the bank's info on the wire payment to A&M Demolition and it came from some offshore outfit with that same name! They've got to be our scumbags!"
Pepper was stunned. How could Brandon Blacklock and Acker Smith be connected to the Ryan home demolition?
"Dad, I think I've got to tell you the longer version of that story—can I meet you at the General's house in half an hour? I have to make one quick stop."
"Okay. You near the water? I'm just getting static… Can you hear me, Son?" The call disconnected.
Pepper pulled into the lighthouse parking lot and saw Rowboat Willie standing by himself way down at the end of the lot, where many cars were parked but no other people were nearby at the moment. Willie was facing away toward the water, apparently talking on a cell phone. And his purple hat was missing—he was wearing some kind of trucker's cap instead. But he otherwise looked like his old grubby self.
No bars on Pepper's own phone, of course. Disgusted, Pepper left it on his truck's seat. He locked the door, walked over.
"Still good," said Rowboat Willie into his phone, now facing Pepper. And his voice wasn't high and thin. The trucker's cap had a lime green front and an Interstate Batteries logo.
Pepper drew the Glock he didn't have a permit to carry anymore. "Hang up and hands behind your head, Willie," he said, pointing his firearm.
Rowboat Willie just smiled. "If I did that, your nephews would be executed immediately. Patrick and Jake, right? My partner's sitting with them right now with a very sharp knife. If I don't tell him the magic words every thirty seconds...hold on.
"Still good," said Willie into the phone, then lowered it. "And your nephews live another thirty seconds, unless my call ends first. So drop your gun and kick it away. Then put on these handcuffs. Hurry up, my cell coverage is lousy down here."
"Don't you hurt those kids," said Pepper, still pointing his Glock.
"My friend, that'll be on you, if you don't do what I said. Immediately." Then, into his phone, Willie said, "Still good." Then, his attention back on Pepper, he said with a little shrug, "And I'm not going to say those words to him again if you're not in cuffs. In thirty seconds they'll be dead and it'll be your bad." Willie tossed the handcuffs and they landed at Pepper's feet with a clatter.
No time to think or argue. No options. Pepper gently placed his weapon on the pavement, kicked it toward Willie. And snapped on the cuffs.
"Still good," said Willie into the phone.
"Okay, Officer Wonderboy, turn around and kneel down. Cross your ankles."
Pepper did, and a moment later felt a burning sting in the back of his neck. Then, nothing.
Pepper woke to an almighty headache. Like his head had been split right down the middle. He was sitting with his legs out and his arms handcuffed behind him, around a metal pole. In a single bare bulb's light Pepper could see he was in a small metal building or shed.
"How do you feel?" asked Rowboat Willie. He was sitting in a chair in front of Pepper. He was now wearing Pepper's Red Sox cap. In his hand was an aluminum baseball bat with what looked like a bloodstain on its barrel.
"You'd better not have hurt the boys," said Pepper.
"Ah, sorry about that. I was given their info to help this go more smoothly. Truth is, they were never in danger. And I'm not being paid to kill kids--the fee's not quite high enough. But a pretty good bluff, no?" Willie scooted closer. "But now game time's over." And Willie tossed Pepper's hat on the floor. Then pulled off his long hair. "Let me introduce myself for real. I'm Oliver."
Chapter Forty-Seven
Oliver was pumped. He was absolutely in control of the man, the myth—Pepper Ryan!
And Oliver was also an absolute sensation—everyone in America had heard of his creative, murderous work. The splashy distribution of the lieutenant's body parts was the clincher. The buzz over every form of media was more than terror. It was fascination—who was this mysterious, savage Red Starfish killer? The video clips by news reporters on CNN's website made the killer sound so sexy.
And even better, Oliver was almost done.
Their orders from the client were very specific: kill Pepper Ryan, ASAP. The client had emphasized how super important it was this time, which gave Oliver the idea to renegotiate his fee. Oliver had a strong theory that their client was the local billionaire, Acker Smith, despite the voice distortion device that the client used. And if he was right, the client could absolutely afford to pay triple the offered rate, without any difficulty. Especially if Oliver only demanded his cut be tripled… Which was fair, since he had to put up with Croke.
Triple. A number which would allow him to disappear immediately for a long, long time. Get far away from his bosses in Queens, who had probably already sent another carload of maniacs in the direction of Cape Cod to eliminate Oliver and Croke in the most excruciating way they could think of.
The law was closing in too. They couldn't go out in public anymore without new disguises and Oliver was running out of variations. And now they had to change cars like what—every five minutes? No, it was time to go. Which meant Oliver had only this one last chance to negotiate a monster payday.
Oliver didn't have a personal beef with Pepper Ryan. Really, the opposite. Kinda felt like they were kindred spirits—rebellious men of action. And Pepper had been respectful in their earlier encounters when Oliver was playing the down-and-out Rowboat Willie. He decided when it came time, he'd finish Ryan with a smooth stab to the heart using his razor-sharp Gerger blade. Professional courtesy for a worthy but vanquished foe.
Oliver was extra confident about getting triple pay because he suspected the client planned to ask them to carry out one final, epic hit—to assassinate the President of the United States. Because when they'd last talked, the client had asked Oliver whether he still had the sniper rifle and ammo. When he'd said yes, the client had said good, to hold onto it for a bit.
Oliver had even daydreamed about the thrill of such a kill. The rush from putting a bullet through the brain of the most powerful man in the world. And it was fun to guess what mega, mega fee would accompany such a request.
But Oliver knew he would never take that contract because it'd be impossible to escape after pulling that trigger. There was no percentage. Not even Oliver wanted the infamy that would end with himself dead or—worse—buried in some federal hellhole for life.
But kill Ryan? No problem, once the client upped the ante.
Oliver wasn't able to get a signal on the so-called expensive blue phone in the boat shed. Not even on the dock outside. He'd have to drive up toward town until he got a signal, then call the client. Negotiate. Confirm the triple payment's delivery. Move the funds to his other, more secure offshore account. Then they'd kill Ryan.
And then Oliver was gone, gone, gone, no matter what final job and payday the client offered…
"Recognize your friend?" Croke was asking Pepper Ryan, who appeared half awake but was otherwise none too bad, yet. Still handcuffed securely to the pole. Oliver saw Ryan looking at a body halfway across the floor.
"No, not that dead guy," hinted Croke. "The shorter one." Croke gestured toward the dead lieutenant's bloody torso in the corner, laughing like he'd made some joke.
What a weirdo!
Pepper's vision was still swimming, but he was trying to focus on a clothing heap where the older guy had pointed. Pepper gagged from the sweet, thick rotting smell, drifting from that direction… But Pepper didn't see a head. Didn't see any limbs.
Shit. Pepper felt a chill wash from the back o
f his head, down his neck, down the center of his back. Was that what's left from Hurd? The parts that didn't go in the mail?
The body of a very fat, gray-haired man in a seersucker suit was sprawled a bit closer to Pepper…some man he didn't recognize. He'd been dead a while, based on his coloring. Flies were moving in a mini-cloud, near his head and his hands.
Another body was a bit further away, but it faced Pepper, with a purple gash across the man's neck and a red bath of blood on his shirt. Pepper recognized the uniform, the face, the bushy blonde mustache: it was Vinter, the captain of the Madeline Too! Why the hell'd they kill him? Had Vinter stumbled on their activities and been killed for what he saw, like Marcus Dunne? Or was he in cahoots with the murderers and they double-crossed him? Vinter's body was getting attention from the flies too.
Rowboat Willie—no, Oliver—was talking to the older guy now, seemed to be giving him instructions. The older guy wasn't liking it, they were kind of arguing, but trying to appear like they weren't, like a married couple squabbling in a crowded restaurant. Oliver was gesturing at the older guy with one of those fancy blue phones…
"That's it," Pepper heard Oliver hiss. "I'll be right back." The older guy made a rude gesture at Oliver's back as he left the shed. Made two fists, bobbed and weaved a bit, threw some jabs and an uppercut. Actually pretty smoothly, like maybe he had some ring experience.
Pepper groaned, tried to stretch. Failed. Remembered his Red Sox hat was missing. Sonofabitch. He was still sitting against the cold metal pole, his arms looped around it. Held there by the cold handcuffs. The good news was his head was clearing. The bad news was the more fully he regained consciousness, the more his head hurt.
"So hey, can we talk about this?" asked Pepper. The older captor was the guy that the motel witness described as looking like the actor William Devane, and Pepper could see the resemblance.
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