Patriot: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  “Old joke.”

  “You’re smart, aren’t you, Harding? I like smart men. Are you married?”

  “No. Well, yes.”

  “See? You are funny. May I have another pink champagne?”

  Harding twirled his right index finger, signaling the barman for another round. He briefly tried to remember how many scotches he’d had and gave up.

  “Cute dog,” he said, bending down to pet the pooch, hating how utterly pathetic he sounded. But, hell, he was hooked. Hooked, gaffed, and in the boat. He’d already crawl through a mile of broken glass just to drink her bathwater.

  “Thanks,” she said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette with a gold Dupont lighter. She took a deep drag and let it out, coughing a bit.

  “So you enjoy smoking?” Harding said.

  “No, I just like coughing.”

  “Good one. What’s the little guy’s name?”

  “It’s a her. Rikki Nelson.”

  “Oh. You mean like . . .”

  “Right. In the Ozzie and Harriet reruns. Only this little bitch on wheels likes her name spelled with two ‘k’s. Like Rikki Martinez. You know? Don’t you, precious? Yes, you do!”

  “Who?”

  “The singer?”

  “Oh, sure. Who?”

  “Never mind, honey. Ain’t no thing.”

  “Right. So, shopping. What else do you like, Crystal?”

  “Golf. I’m a scratch golfer. Oh, and jewelry. I really like jewelry.”

  “Golfer, huh? You heard the joke about Arnold Palmer’s ex-wife?”

  “No, but I’m going to, I guess.”

  “So this guy marries Arnold Palmer’s ex. After they make love for the third time on their wedding night, the new groom picks up the phone. ‘Who are you calling?’ Arnie’s ex asks. Room service, he says, I’m starved. That’s not what Arnold would’ve done, she says. So the guy says, okay, what would Arnold have done? Arnold would have done it again, that’s what. So they did it again. Then the guy picks up the phone again and she says, ‘You calling room service again?’ And he says, ‘No, baby, I’m calling Arnold. Find out what par is on this damn hole.’”

  He waited.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, see, he’s calling Arnold because he—”

  “Shhh,” she said, putting her index finger to her lips.

  She covered his large hand with her small one and stroked the inside of his palm with her index finger.

  She put her face close to his and whispered, “Frankly? Let’s just cut the shit. I like sex, Harding.”

  “That’s funny, I do, too,” he said.

  “I bet you do, baby. I warn you, though. I’m a big girl, Harding. I am a big girl with big appetites. I wonder. Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  “Must have missed that one, sorry. You ever read Mark Twain?”

  “No. Who wrote it?”

  “What?”

  “I said, who wrote it? The Mark Twain thing.”

  “Doesn’t matter, tell me about Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I found it terribly vanilla,” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what men always say when they don’t know what the hell a girl is talking about.”

  “Vanilla. Not kinky enough.”

  “Not bad, Harding. Know what they used to say about me at my sorority house at UCLA? The Kappa Delts?”

  “I do not.”

  “That Crystal. She’s got big hair and big knockers and she likes big sex.”

  He turned to face her and took both her perfect hands in his.

  “I’m sorry. Would you ever in your wildest dreams consider leaving your rich husband and marrying a poor, homeless boy like me?”

  “No.”

  “Had to ask.”

  “I do like to screw. You do get that part, right?”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Long as we’re square on this, Harding.”

  “We’re square.”

  “I’m gonna tie you to the bed and make you squeal like Porky Pig, son. Or, vice versa. You with me on this?”

  He just looked at her and smiled.

  Jackpot.

  THE ELEVATOR TO THE PENTHOUSE suite opened inside the apartment foyer. It was exquisite, just as Harding would have imagined the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris might be, full of soft evening light, with huge arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere, and through the opened doors, a large terrace overlooking the lights of Paris and the misty gardens directly below.

  Crystal smiled demurely and led him into the darkened living room. She showed him the bar and told him to help himself. She’d be right back. Slipping into something a little more comfortable, he imagined, smiling to himself as he poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue and strolled over to a large and very inviting sofa by the fireplace.

  He kicked his shoes off, stretched out, and took a sip of whisky. He was just getting relaxed when he heard an odd streaming sound. Looking down at the floor, he saw that the little fuckhead Rikki Nelson had just peed all over his Guccis.

  “Shit!” he said, under his breath.

  “Hey!” he heard Crystal yell.

  “What?”

  “Turn on some music, Harding; Momma wants to dance, baby!” she called out from somewhere down a long dark hall.

  He got to his feet and staggered a few feet in the gloom, cracking his shin on an invisible coffee table.

  “What? Music? Where is it?”

  “Right below the bar glasses. Just push ‘on.’ It’s all loaded up and ready to rip.”

  He limped over to the bar and hit the button.

  Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” filled the room.

  “Is that it?” he shouted over Dino.

  “Hell, yeah, son. Crank it!”

  He somehow found the volume control, cranked it, and went out to the terrace, away from the bar’s booming overhead speakers. The rain was pattering on the drooping awning overhead and the night smelled like . . . like what . . . jasmine? No, that wasn’t it. Something, anyway. It definitely smelled like something out here. But—

  “Hey, you!” she shouted from the living room’s open doorway. “There he is! There’s my big stud. Come on in here, son. Let’s dance! Waltz your ass on in here, baby boy, right now!”

  He downed his drink and went inside. Crystal stood in the center of the room wearing a skintight S&M outfit. A black leather bodysuit that would have put Catwoman to shame. She had little Rikki Nelson cuddled atop her bulging tits, nuzzling her with kisses.

  “Where’s the whip, kitten?” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll dig one up somewhere, don’t worry.”

  Harding collapsed into the nearest armchair and stared.

  “Why are you staring like that at me and Rikki?” she pouted.

  “Just trying to figure out whether or not that diamond-studded leash of yours is on the wrong bitch.”

  Give her credit, she laughed.

  “I sure hope to hell you know how to dance, mister,” she said. “Now get up and get with it, I mean it.”

  He hauled himself manfully up out of the leather chair.

  You do what you have to do, he reminded himself.

  And he danced.

  And danced some more.

  CHAPTER 4

  He was drenched in sweat and panting like an old bird dog. Even the sheets were wet. Somehow he’d managed to give her three Big Os, two traditional and, last, one utterly exhausting one. He’d never worked so hard in his life. “Outside the box,” she called it, that last one.

  He managed a weak smile. “Wow, you are something else, aren’t you, girl? I need a cigarette.”

  “No time. Back in the saddle, cowboy. You got me hot, now. This cowgirl’s itching to ride!”

  “Crystal, seriously. I need a little breather here.”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Harding. Momma’s waiting. Turn over.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  He r
olled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. She took his wrists and tied them to the bedposts with two Hermès scarves she’d plucked from the bedside table.

  He didn’t even bother trying to fight her.

  “Are you trying to kill me, or what?”

  “Don’t you worry yourself, baby. The Cialis will kick in any minute now.”

  “I don’t take Cialis, Crystal.”

  “You do now, stud. I put two in your drink down at the lobby bar. When you bent down to pat Rikki Nelson. Remember that?”

  “What? Are you kidding me? F’crissakes, Crystal . . .”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, hon. Big sex, remember? Okay, I’ll get on top this time. Oh, yes . . . somebody’s ready for Momma down there. That Cialis is a bitch, isn’t it? Just think, two pills, you might have an erection lasting eight hours . . .”

  “Listen, Crystal, you’ve really got to stop this . . . untie me . . . I’ve got a pain in my chest . . . I mean it!”

  “Pussy is always the best cure for whatever ails you, son. Hang on, Momma’s gonna ride this bucking bronco . . .”

  “Damn it, get off! I’ve got a cardiac condition! Doc says I’m supposed to take it easy . . . Goddammit, I’m serious! Now my arm really hurts . . . call the doctor, Crystal. Now. They must have a house doctor on call and. . . . oh, Christ almighty, it hurts . . . do something!”

  “Like what?”

  “My pills! My nitro pills! They’re over there in my trouser pocket. . . .”

  “Hold on a sec . . .”

  She reached over and picked up the bedside phone, never breaking her rhythmic stride, and asked for the hotel operator.

  HE MUST HAVE PASSED OUT from the pain. Everything was foggy, out of focus. The room was dark, the rain beating hard against the windowpanes. Just a single lamp light from a table over in the corner.

  Crystal, still naked, was sitting at the foot of the bed, smoking a cigarette and talking to the doctor in hushed tones. Her head was resting on the doctor’s shoulder. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was bathed in a cold, clammy sweat and the pain had spread from behind his breastbone into and out along his left arm. Fucking hell. His wrists were still tied to the bedposts? Was she insane?

  Then he noticed something that totally weirded him out. The fucking doctor? His savior?

  He was naked.

  He heard a sob escape his own lips, and then a cry of pain from the phantom elephant sitting atop his chest.

  “Shhh,” the doctor said, getting to his feet and coming to the head of the bed to stand beside him. He put his finger to his lips and said, “Shhh,” again.

  “You’ve gotta do CPR or something, Doc,” Harding croaked. “My pills! They’re in the right pocket of my trousers. Please. I feel like I’m going to die . . .”

  “That’s because you are going to die, Harding,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Wait. Who are you?” He squinted his eyes, but he couldn’t make out the physician’s features.

  “Vengeance, sayeth the Lord, Harding. That’s who I am. Vengeance.”

  “You’re not a doctor. . . . You’re . . .”

  “Dr. Death will do for now.”

  “Who . . . no, you’re not . . . you’re somebody else. You’re . . .”

  “Don’t you recognize me anymore, Harding? I’ve had a little surgery recently. A bit of Botox. But, still, the eyes are always a dead giveaway. Look close.”

  “Spider?”

  “Bingo.”

  “No, can’t be . . . You’re Spider, f’crissakes,” the dying man croaked.

  “Right. Spider Payne. Your old buddy. Come rain or come shine. Tonight, it’s rain. Look out the window, Harding. It’s goddamn pouring out there. Ever see it rain so hard?”

  “Gimme a break here, Spider. What are you doing . . .”

  “It’s called poetic justice. A little twist of fate shall we say?”

  Pain scorched Torrance’s body and he arched upward, straining against his bonds, coming almost completely off the bed. He didn’t think anything could hurt this much.

  His old nemesis knelt on the floor by the bed and started gently stroking his hair. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

  “You fucked me royally, Harding. Remember that? When I needed you most? When the French government, whom you always claimed to have in your pocket, nailed my balls to the wall? Kidnapping and suspicion of murder. Thirty years to life? Ring a bell?”

  “That wasn’t my fault, f’crissakes! Please! You gotta help me!”

  “That’s my line. Help me. You don’t get to use it. Way too late for that, I’m afraid, old soldier. You’re catching the next train, partner.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t breathe . . . I can’t catch my . . .”

  “This is how it works, Harding. You fucked with the wrong honchos in Moscow, buddy. Really wrong. Ever heard of a dude goes by the name of Uncle Joe? A dead ringer for Joe Stalin. You pissed off Putin’s number one henchman in the Kremlin, compadre. He’s the reason I’m here. Your ass is mine, pal.”

  “Who—”

  “Doesn’t matter now. It’s so simple, isn’t it? Judgment Day. How it all works out in the end? In that dark hour when no treason, no treachery, no bad deed goes unpunished.”

  “I can’t . . . can’t . . .”

  Harding Torrance opened his eyes wide in fear and pain. And as the blackness creeped in around him, and his life ran away from him like a man fleeing a burning building, he heard Spider Payne utter the last words his brain would ever register.

  “You fucked me, right? But, in the end, Crystal Meth and the old Spider, well, I guess they fucked you.”

  “Who’s Uncle Joe?” Harding Torrance whispered with the last breath left in his body.

  CHAPTER 5

  North Haven, Maine

  The bright blue waters of Penobscot Bay beckoned. Cam Hooker, buttoning up a light blue and freshly laundered Brooks Brothers shirt, paused to throw open his dressing room window. Glorious morning, all right. Sunlight sparkled on the bay, white seabirds flashed and dove above. He leaned out the window, took a deep breath of pine-scented Maine air, and assessed the morning’s weather.

  Fresh breeze out of the east, and a moderate chop, fifteen knots sustained, maybe gusting to thirty. Barometer falling, increased cloudiness, possible thunderheads moving in from the west by midmorning. Chance of rain showers later on, oh, sixty to seventy percent, give or take.

  Perfect.

  Certainly nothing an old salt like Cameron Hooker couldn’t handle.

  It was Sunday, praise the Lord, his favorite day of the week. The day he got to take himself, his New York Times, and whatever tattered paperback spy novel he was currently headlong into reading for the third time (an old Alastair MacLean) out on his boat for a few tranquil hours of peace and quiet and bliss.

  Hooker had sailed her, his black ketch Maracaya, every single Sunday morning of his life, for nigh on forty years now, rain or shine, sleet, hail or snow.

  Man alone. A singleton. Solitary.

  It was high summer again, and summer meant grandchildren by the dozen. Toddlers, rug rats, and various ragamuffins running roughshod throughout his rambling old seaside cottage on North Haven Island. Haven? Hah! Up and down the back stairs they rumbled, tearing roughshod through the rose gardens, dashing inside and out, darting through his vegetable patches and into his library, all the while shouting at peak decibels some mysterious new battle cry, “Huzzah! Huzzah!” picked up God knows where.

  It was the victory cheer accorded to General George Washington, he knew that, but this intellectually impoverished gizmo generation had not a clue who George Washington was! Of that much, at least, he was certain.

  You knew you were down in the deep severe when not a single young soul in your entire family had the remotest clue who the hell the Father of Our Country was!

  In his day, portraits of the great man beamed benevolence do
wn on students from every wall of every classroom. He was our Father, the Father of our country. Your country! Why, if someone had told young Cam back then that in just one or two generations, the general himself would have been scrubbed clean from our—why, he would have—

  “What are you thinking about, dear?” his wife, Gillian, said, interrupting Cam’s dark reverie at the breakfast table later that morning. She was perusing what he’d always referred to as the “Women’s Sports Section.” Also sometimes known as the bridal pages in the Sunday edition of the New York Times. Apparently, the definitive weekly “Who’s Who” of who’d married whom last week. For all those out there who, like his wife of sixty years, were still keeping score, he supposed.

  “You’re frowning, dear,” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  He scratched his grizzled chin and sighed, gazing out at the tall forests of green trees marching down to the bright harbor. Even now, a mud-caked munchkin wielding a blue Frisbee bat advanced stealthily up the hill, stalking Cam’s old chocolate Lab, Captain, sleeping in the foreground.

  “Will you look at that?” he mused.

  Gillian put the paper down and peered at him over the toaster.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s July, you know,” he said, rapping sharply on the window to alert his dog and scare the munchkin away.

  “July? What about it?”

  “It is the cruelest month,” he said, not looking up from the Book Review. “Not April. July. That’s all.”

  “Oh, good heavens,” she said, and snatched away her section of the paper.

  Dismissed, he stood and leaned across the table to kiss his wife’s proffered cheek.

  “It’s your own damn fault, Cam Hooker,” she said, stroking his rosy cheek. “If you’d relent for once in your life, if you’d only let them have a television to watch, just one! That black-and-white set gathering dust up in the attic would do, the one you watched the Watergate thing on. Or even one of those handheld computer thingies, whatever they’re called; silence would reign supreme in this house once more. But no. Not you.”

  “A television? In this house?” he said. “Oh, no. Not in this house. Never! I’ll buy more books if I have to!”

  “There’s no room for more books, Cam!”