Gary’s voice was constricted. “You stupid fuck. You stupid Coastie fuck. Your career is dead, dead, dead, and when we’re out of here, I’m gonna pay you back.”
Zach said, “Bold talk for a man depending on me to get you both out of here.”
Bright orange tracer fire stitched the night sky. There were more distant screams. Zach said, “We all move quietly and quickly, we can be safe. But don’t get any funky ideas about dumping me over the side as we head down river. It takes about six weeks to get qualified to operate that Zodiac, and about six months to be really good at it. And I’m the best, fellows; that’s why I’m here.”
An explosion shattered the river downstream as the Agency’s cases were blown up. Gary and Paul cursed some more and climbed into the Zodiac. Zach went to J. E. Benjamin and his family, and held out his hand, bringing them to the boat.
“Welcome aboard,” he said.
twenty
The wet grass soaked through the back of Duncan’s shirt as he grabbed his Remington to bring it up as a sweet and familiar voice quietly said, “Honey, what have I always told you about playing without me?”
It felt like the elephant foot that had been crushing his chest had just been lifted up. He took one deep breath and another. “Babe, there’s nothing more arousing than seeing a hot woman with a hot weapon.”
Karen came closer, squatted down next to him. She had on knee-high black Wellington boots, a short black lace nightgown that reached mid-thigh, and a Kevlar vest and was carrying a Colt Model 1911 .45 semiautomatic pistol.
“Having a helpless man at your feet isn’t too bad, either,” she said. “How are you doing?”
“Cold, wet, tired. What got you out here?”
“Had to get up for a drink. Saw you were gone. Saw your Ruger was gone. What’s going on?”
“Black bear sniffing around out back.”
“You let him live?”
“Not in season.” Duncan rolled over, got up. Karen stood up as well. He kissed her and rubbed her head. “Thanks for backing me up.”
She touched his back, his butt, his legs. “Jesus, honey, you’re sopping wet. How about we go back in, I draw you a hot bath?”
“Why not just a change of clothes?”
Karen took her free arm and slipped it into his. “Don’t tell me the magic’s over, honey, that you’d turn down a hot bath from your sweet baboo.”
“The fact you’re still in bed with me every morning convinces me of magic. Let’s go in before Lewis and Amy come out with a baseball bat and a Barbie flamethrower.”
Fifteen minutes later he was in the bathtub, hot water and suds around him, holding a glass of Jameson’s and water. Karen was next to him, wearing her black lace nightie, slowly washing his shoulders and back with a soft washcloth. He let the heat burn out the ache in his bones, felt the soothing sensation of Karen’s hands on him.
They were quiet for a while, and he took a long sip of his drink. Karen nuzzled his neck, kissed his ear, her hair tickling his bare shoulder. “You jumpy?”
“Yeah.”
“More than usual?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Just got word, the shipment schedule’s been moved up. Won’t be next week. More like in two days.”
“A problem, then?”
“Yeah,” he said. “People, resources … not everything’s in place. Then there’s Cameron … I’ve been leading him on way too long.”
“You had to do what was right, hon,” she said softly. “Don’t fret about it.”
“Lately, that’s all I’ve been doing, fretting. He’s stood by me for years. Now, I’m cutting him out.”
She squeezed the washcloth out, wiped his shoulders. “Not true. He abandoned you once.”
“Years ago.”
“But it’s that one time, when he was out banging Mrs. Hampton, that got you—”
“Karen, you don’t need to repeat it. I already know that story.”
“So why are you cutting him out? Mmm? Want to remind me?”
He rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “Because it’s so very dangerous. If it goes south, which is a good possibility, there’ll be lots of trouble, lots of Fed interest … bullets flying hither and yon, and a good chance that I wouldn’t just be arrested, Karen. If the Feds were pissed enough and creative enough, I could be declared an enemy combatant, get myself Gitmoed.”
She kissed his near shoulder. “Truth is, you wouldn’t look good in orange.”
“Truth is, you look good in a potato sack.”
Another kiss to the shoulder. “Stop changing the subject. So you’re cutting Cameron out to protect him, or to make sure he wouldn’t screw it up by opposing it?”
“Bit of both,” he admitted.
“If it does go through …”
“Then I can stop fretting. In the meantime … I made a mistake.”
She put the washcloth down. “Now, or earlier?”
“Earlier, some. I wasn’t thinking straight. Being out there in the cold, I knew I had made a mistake. Karen, we’ve had some agreements, you and I, over the years. Stone cold agreements with no fighting, no discussion, no seeking wiggle room.”
“Duncan …”
“Karen, ‘alas, Babylon,’” he said quietly.
Karen opened her mouth as if to argue, then sat down on the bathmat next to the tub. She sighed, her face flush. “You said it, love. Alas, Babylon. When?”
“Tomorrow. The kids go to school but not home. You choose the place. Don’t tell me. Just make it happen. You, too, all right? Pack a bag and go to work like nothing’s going on, but don’t come home. Let me know later where you are.”
Duncan looked at those stern green eyes of hers, trying to gauge what she was thinking. Only twice before had he done this, using as a phrase the title of a 1960s post-apocalyptic novel they had both read in high school, written by Pat Frank. In that book, an Air Force intelligence officer warned his brother of an impending nuclear war by saying “alas, Babylon.” No such war was coming to Turner, but conflict certainly was. Earlier he had uttered the words when he had heard of tough men coming up here from Boston and the second time from Providence.
Damn, he should have done it earlier. That bear out there … it could have easily been a two-legged predator, not one on four legs.
Karen leaned over, her freckled cleavage impressive and enticing. She kissed his lips. “No argument from me, sweetie. We’ll be gone after breakfast tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
She suddenly took the wet washcloth, gently slapped it across his cheek, leaned in, and whispered. “This shipment … if it works as you say, then we’ll be safe, won’t we? No more alarm systems, no more weapons in easy reach, no more ‘alas Babylon.’”
“That’s right. If it works.”
She tugged his ear, hard. “Then make it work.”
Later Duncan Crowley is in his bed, next to his loving and well-armed wife, wide awake, and remembering.
Two months after graduating from high school, he sat in the reception area of his father’s law firm, Crowley & Carleton, waiting for Caleb Carleton to come out and continue their discussion. The room was familiar but it was oh so strange to be sitting here like any other client or visitor, instead of being the son of one of the two senior partners. Earlier this was just a place to pass through before going to Dad’s nearby office, but that office was now empty. Everything in there that belonged to Dad had been boxed up and delivered to their home, in plain white cardboard boxes. No notes of sympathy, nothing personal at all from Caleb or the other lawyers and staff. Just stuff in bubble wrap, from coffee cups to framed prints of the family.
He rubbed his hands together, looked up at the clock. His brother Cameron was still late. This was supposed to be a meeting with the three of them, to get things straight, ever since last month when Mom and Dad had
gone out for a quick vacation trip to Colorado, where their commuter plane had iced up at night, flipped over, and dove into the side of a mountain. Besides everything that had gone on—from dealing with funeral arrangements and sympathy cards and flowers to going to bed every night with that cold hard feeling inside of you, that this is it, you are an orphan, with your big brother as your family and that is it—there were disturbing things as well.
The biggest was that Caleb Carleton had kept on dragging his feet and postponing meetings and not returning phone calls when it came to discuss Mom and Dad’s will and the trust fund that had been set up for both sons. Finally Duncan had come into the office last week, had not left until he had made a firm appointment for a meeting with him and Cameron, and here he was, alone.
Earlier he and Mr. Carleton had gone to lunch at Rosie’s Restaurant in town—he had a cheeseburger and coke, while Carleton had steak tips and three martinis—and over the meal, Carleton had danced around the missing paperwork, the missing funds. “Later, later,” he had said. “We’ll get this all settled later when we get back to the office. Promise. Now, tell me more about that scholarship. I also heard stories that some scouts from the Yankees and the Orioles have been checking you out.” So that’s how the lunch went, Duncan eating as fast as he could to get the darn thing over with, Carleton nursing each of his three drinks.
Duncan looked around the reception area to the law offices, feeling out of sorts, out of place. This had been a fun place to visit when Dad had been here, a place where he could play and steal pencils and hide among the book cases full of law books, but now … the only thing left were the memories. It wasn’t his anymore, like their house, filled with ghosts and shadows and possessions of his dead parents.
The door to Carleton’s office flew open and he came out. He was portly, wearing black shoes, gray slacks, a white dress shirt with French cuffs, red suspenders, and red bow tie that was sagging under his fleshy neck. His gray hair was thick and combed back, and he waved at Mrs. Turin, the head secretary, as he came over to Duncan.
“Duncan, Duncan,” he said. “Just got an important phone call from the county courthouse. I have to make a filing there right now, or an important case of mine will be tossed out. I’m sure you know the importance of timely filings. I’m afraid we’ll have to finish this another day.”
Duncan stood up and was going to say, all right, I understand, but something bitter seemed to bite in his mouth as he noted the reception room and the empty office that had belonged to his dad.
“No,” Duncan said. “I’ll come along with you, Mr. Carleton, and we can talk about it in the car.”
Carleton’s face was scarlet and it looked like he was going to say something sharp. Maybe it was the presence of Mrs. Turin or something else, but he snorted, returned to his office, and came out with his matching gray suit coat and a soft leather briefcase. Duncan fell into step with him and they went out the rear entrance, down to a small parking lot. The lawyer said, “Really, Duncan, I don’t know how long I’ll be at the courthouse.”
“That’s all right. I don’t mind waiting.”
Inside the Cadillac, it took three tries before he could get the key into the ignition, and by the time they got out on Main Street, the interior of the car stunk of sweat and booze. Duncan realized with a sharp taste of fear that the three martinis hadn’t been the first drinks of the day for his father’s law partner. The guy was drunk out of his skull, and the car moved across the center line twice as they head out of town.
Duncan said, “If I may, Mr. Carleton, I—”
“You know, kid, the law can really be a pain in the ass,” he said, the words starting to slur. “You start off, nice and eager, ready to defend the defenseless, help the helpless, and what do you end up doing? End up defending one group of assholes from another group of assholes.”
“I see, but—”
He slapped the steering wheel for emphasis. “Every goddamn day. And the bills! Christ, you have to meet payroll, you got utilities, you got dues, you gotta bring in expert witnesses and shit like that to get things done, and when you bill out, what do you get? Thanks for keeping my idiot daughter out of jail? Thanks for getting me that settlement check from PSNH? Thanks for making sure my son-of-a-bitch husband gets to pay child support? Hell, no. They bitch over your bills, they bitch over your filings, for God’s sake, they bitch over everything …”
The car sped up. Duncan made sure his seatbelt was secure and tightened. Carleton sneezed and closed his eyes and wiped his nose with his wrist.
“Mr. Carleton, I really don’t understand the delay in getting the paperwork filed with probate,” Duncan said nervously, as the Cadillac roared down the road, twenty miles over the speed limit. “I mean, it seems like—”
With one hand draped over the steering wheel, Mr. Carleton suddenly pointed at Duncan with the other. “Jesus fucking Christ, what’s the urgency, hunh? You’re a young kid, in such a goddamn hurry. What’s the problem?”
Duncan swallowed. He had never seen Mr. Carleton—who had been over at their house so many times for dinners and Sunday football games and cookouts—be so angry, so wound up.
“There’s no problem, I’m sure,” Duncan said, staring out at the trees and stone walls rushing by. “Cameron and I, we want to ensure that—”
“Cameron!” Mr. Carleton snorted. “What a loser he is … he’s going to be trouble, just you see … in fact, I heard he got rousted off Bailey Hill last month, claimed he was using a telescope to look at the stars or some damn nonsense. Hah. Chief Harnsworth was sure he was using it to spy on a girls’ slumber party down the street.”
The Cadillac roared through a curve in the road, tires squealing, Duncan grabbing onto the door handle. Duncan said desperately, “Cameron’s not a loser. He’s smart. So what if he wears his hair long and—”
“If he’s not such a loser, why isn’t he here with you, eh? Why?”
“I’m sure there’s a good reason,” Duncan said. “I just know.”
“And you!” Mr. Carleton said, again turning away from the road to chastise him. “You have a bright future ahead of you! A pitching arm that can bring you to the majors! A scholarship! You and your loser brother, you’re worried about a goddamn will … a goddamn trust … The truth. Damn, you’ve been badgering me all this time and I wanted to spare you the hurt, you poor kid. The truth is, sonny, your dad had everything, and I mean every last goddamn penny tied up in the business, and there’s nothing left for you and your brother! Not a damn thing!”
Duncan couldn’t believe what he had just heard. More tires squealing, and he turned to the lawyer and said, “That’s a lie! That’s a damn lie! My dad would never have done that!”
A hand flew out, catching Duncan on the chin. He fell back as the man’s voice roared again, “You ungrateful little snot, I should —
Duncan closed his eyes. Another curve was coming up. The Cadillac flew off the road, there was scraping and bumping as the undercarriage ground its quick way over saplings and rocks and boulders, and a sudden crackling crash and a burst of pain, and that was it.
That was it.
partial summary transcript
Daily Threat Assessment Task Force Teleconference Call
April 15th
FBI representative: “… going back over my notes, I’m still concerned by the situation concerning the Mextel trailer reported missing five days ago. We even received a Threat Level Alpha message from our Canadian friends. Custom stations from Maine to Michigan were put on high alert. Even the Osprey drone surveillance system along the northern border was brought in for real-time intel gathering and evaluation. Now you’re telling us the alert’s been cancelled?”
Homeland Security representative: “Not cancelled. Just reevaluated.”
FBI: “What the hell is the difference?”
Homeland Security: “A lot of wasted effor
t and overtime, that’s the difference. We got better intelligence. That’s all you need to know for now.”
Department of State representative: “What do the Canadians think about this?”
Unidentified: “Who cares what the Canadians think.”
[[General laughter]]
FBI: “… serious for a moment. I don’t like the idea of a trailer going missing that results in a Threat Level Alpha status, even if it is from the Canadians, and then the alert is cancelled. A lot of nasty stuff can be hidden in a truck trailer. I just want it on the record that I’m not satisfied with the response I’m getting from Homeland Security.”
Homeland Security: “Duly noted. Now, Tom, are you emphasizing this because you want to protect your butt if that trailer shows up?”
FBI: [[Expletive deleted]] If it drives into an underground parking facility at the Capitol Building, packed to the roof with ammonium nitrate, then I want to make sure that at some point, the FBI raised a concern.”
State Department: “Can we move on to the next agenda item, please?”
CIA representative: “Agreed. I have a lunch date I can’t afford to miss.”
twenty-one
When the morning status meeting for the Region One administrators of the Department of Homeland Security concluded, Tanya Gibbs called out softly, “Gordon, if I may, could I see you afterwards?”
Gordon Simpson, the Region One administrator, nodded from the head of the polished conference room table. “That’d be fine, Tanya. In fact, I need to talk to you about a couple of matters.”
“That would be nice, thank you,” she said, although she spared a glance at Walter Dresden, trying to see by his looks whether that character had confessed all to Gordie. But Walter looked cool and calm as he picked up his BlackBerry and legal pad, and strolled out with the other administrators and officers of Region One. The door was closed and she was alone with her boss.
Night Road Page 16