by Trevor Hoyle
Cawdor stared at them through the glass screen until they blurred in front of his eyes. He said numbly, ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s actually “M”.’
The woman made a resigned clucking sound. ‘Well, there you go. Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’ She looked round, as if someone might be lurking behind her, and tore out the page. She folded it and pushed it through the slot. ‘Best I can do.’
Cawdor unfolded the page. Checking out nearly forty addresses in a town he didn’t know… impossible. He said, ‘Thanks for your help. I don’t know this person’s full name because he’s a TV celebrity. More than likely it’s a fake name anyway.’
‘Oh my, you fall over celebrities in Palm Beach every day of the week! Dolly Parton has a place here, Sharon Stone, and that country singer guy, er – yeah, Glen Campbell. Ex-president Ford. Bob Hope has a home here,’ she said, and then frowned into space. ‘Or he used to have.’
‘Messiah Wilde?’ Cawdor said.
The woman widened her eyes. ‘Oh, that Wilde. Is he the one you’re looking for? Yes, he lives in Palm Beach. Gotta house up on Rowen Oak Drive.’ She plucked a gratis Texaco street map from a metal tray and after studying it for all of three seconds circled a beach-front area in ballpoint. She pushed it through the slot.
‘Five minutes from here, north off US 1.’
She sat back in her chair after he’d gone, staring at the smudge of fading condensation on the glass screen where he’d planted a kiss as a token to her.
There were four houses on Rowen Oak Drive. The second one Cawdor came to had a four-foot-high wall of granite slabs topped by a neatly trimmed hedge. It was an effective barrier, permitting a view from the pavement that was limited to one end of the steeply gabled roof. Pencil beams of light shone through tiny chinks in the hedge, so he knew the garden was floodlit. But that didn’t matter.
What did matter was that he had identified the house. He walked back to where he had parked the car. Daniella wound the window down.
‘You still OK?’ Daniella nodded. ‘I’ve found it,’ Cawdor said. ‘I won’t be gone very long. Keep the door locked and the window shut. If Sarah’s still in there, I’ll bring her out. If she isn’t,’ he went on, knowing he shouldn’t be saying this, but saying it anyway, ‘I’ll burn the place down.’
He squeezed her hand, watched her wind up the window, and then went back across the road and walked in the opposite direction, away from the house. Driving up he had seen the wooden sign that said JETTY in the headlights. It pointed to a sandy track that ran adjacent to the perimeter fence of the first house and led down to the beach. There was barely a ripple on the ocean. In the pallid light of a crescent moon he saw the white fringes of tiny waves as they flopped tiredly on the hard sand. A couple stood arm in arm on the wooden jetty, looking into the far distance, where flickers of lightning appeared through a huge dark mass of thundercloud. Other solitary figures strolled along the waterline, the dark leaping shapes of dogs endlessly circling them.
The wooden fence of the first house extended along the beach, and the boundary of Messiah Wilde’s property was marked by a palisade of anodised steel posts, their tops sheared off to form points. There was a gate of metal mesh, chained and padlocked. Cawdor moved further along until he could see the house through a gap in a row of juniper bushes and flowering shrubs. The upper floor was in darkness, but lights were burning downstairs. He could make out a brick patio by the splash of light that fell on it from sliding doors of glass, and he saw a shape moving within, though male or female he couldn’t tell.
The fence was a real ball-breaker. If he attempted to scale it he’d rip his hands to shreds; or worse, impale himself on the vicious spikes. He looked up and down the beach, as if the empty expanse of sand might offer up an answer. Failing that, he needed divine inspiration. He turned round in a complete circle and looked back towards the jetty. The couple had gone. Cawdor stared at the black outline jutting out into the lapping waves and then he started to run. He had already seen what he needed when he came on to the beach – just too slow and too dumb to have realised it.
Laid end to end on the sand, frames of slatted timber provided a walkway from beach to jetty. The separate frames weren’t even joined together or fastened to the ground. He heaved one of them to an upright position and lugged it up the beach, staggering under its weight. Using the slatted treads as rungs, he climbed up the fence, and with a final leap cleared the row of spikes and landed in the soft sandy earth.
The row of bushes afforded cover until he was thirty feet from the house. Beyond them was the lawn, sloping up to the brick-paved patio and illuminated by two large floodlights on metal tripods at either side of the garden. Cawdor began a close scrutiny of each of the many windows before he decided it was a pointless waste of time. Whether or not he was being observed didn’t alter the fact that he had to reach the house. Waiting for the right moment made no sense at all. Once he had figured that out, everything became simple. He rose from his crouching position and ran swiftly and silently over the grass, aiming instinctively for an area of blank wall between a darkened window and the sliding glass doors where he had glimpsed someone moving. The brick was warm to the touch, radiating the stored heat of the sun. His face pressed close to the wall, Cawdor edged sideways and peered into the room. It was a bedroom done out in a colour scheme of black and red, he saw, with table lamps casting pools of light, and Sarah was sitting on the end of the bed wearing a lightweight grey sweater, bluejeans and low-heeled suede pumps that matched the sweater.
She didn’t notice when he stepped into view. She sat hunched and still, pale to the lips and with a dull glaze over her eyes. Cawdor tapped his fingernails on the glass. When she did see him Sarah lurched to her feet, but there was something the matter with her legs, because she took only a couple of paces before stumbling and falling on all fours. She stayed there, looking up at him with dulled, exhausted eyes. Cawdor inspected the edge of the aluminium frame for an external catch or handgrip; there was neither, and had there been it would have made no difference. The sliding doors were secured by six keyoperated brass bolts, he now saw, one in each corner and two in the centre. The triple-density safety glass, of the type used for department-store windows, was as solid and unyielding as steel plate. It would take a battering ram to break through it.
Cawdor tipped over a large, round earthenware tub and wrenched out the roots of the flowering shrub growing in it. He scooped out most of the earth and rolled the tub across the patio. Inside the bedroom, Sarah was kneeling by the bed, a safe distance from flying glass. Cawdor gripped the tub at the rim and the base and strained to lift it. He got it as high as chest level, nearly toppling forward under the stupendous weight, and with a last grunting heave raised it above his head. With the stiff-legged gait of a robot he managed three halting steps and thrust the tub with all his strength at the sliding doors. The glass resounded with the deep bass boom of a gong; the tub bounced off; and the doors shivered and reverberated like the buzzing of a thousand angry bees, not even cracked.
Again Cawdor took hold of the tub by the rim and base. But he knew at once from the trembling in his arms that his first mighty effort had taken too much out of him. He hardly had sufficent strength to raise it off the floor. Instead he rolled the tub to the edge of the brick patio, lined it up, and set it rolling with a kick start, then speeded up the trundling momentum by pushing with both hands. The door vibrated under the impact, and this time the glass gave off a false note, more like the dead clunk of a lead bell. There was an explosive retort as loud as a pistol shot, and a crack appeared from top to bottom.
All it took then was a single kick, delivered with the heel of his shoe: the sheet of plate glass split down the middle, caved inward and crashed into the room, huge jagged shards tumbling over the carpet.
Cawdor dived through the gap. It was only then that he saw the man standing in the doorway. He was small and swarthy, with jet-black hair, wearing a white jacket, and he was holding a
gun. There wasn’t time for Cawdor to react. But from somewhere, fuelled by a surge of anger, Sarah found the strength to react for him. From her kneeling position she reached out for a shard of glass and in the same movement sent it skimming like a deadly dagger across the room. The servant swayed back and vanished behind the door. If he hadn’t, the shard of glass would have buried itself in his forehead instead of in the door. He cautiously reappeared, his dark eyes fearful, and got a fist in the teeth. The blow sent him sprawling back into the hallway. Cawdor stamped down with his heel on the man’s wrist. The servant let out a howl, and the gun skittered across the carpet. Cawdor kicked him in the side of the head to emphasise the point, stepped over him and picked up the gun. He was unfamiliar with guns of any description, but he knew enough to aim one and pull the trigger.
The servant lay on his side in a foetal crouch, both hands pressed to his head. He was moaning and jabbering something that sounded like a plea for mercy. Cawdor wasn’t in the right frame of mind to listen. Grabbing a fistful of white linen jacket, he pulled the small man to his feet and jabbed the gun barrel hard into the hollow at the nape of the skinny neck.
‘Anyone else in the house with you?’
The servant shook his head, rolling the whites of his eyes up at Cawdor.
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘No, sir,’ the servant croaked through bloody lips. A fragment of tooth was stuck to his pointed chin.
Cawdor pushed the door fully open with the toe of his shoe. Sarah was on her feet, but only just. She was trying to say something in a slurred drunken voice, her eyes welling with tears.
‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ Cawdor said. ‘Don’t try to talk.’ But she carried on, and watching her lips he realised the name she was struggling to form. ‘Daniella is all right,’ he said. ‘She’s outside in the car, waiting for us.’ With an effort he forced himself to smile, in order to encourage her, and Sarah’s faltering and feeble attempt to return it broke his heart.
It was obvious to Cawdor that she couldn’t walk unaided. The gun jammed against his spine, the servant was more than willing to assist her, and with Cawdor supporting Sarah’s other arm the three of them moved through the house to the front door. Cawdor opened it and then stiffened, hearing the approaching wail of a siren. Had smashing the window triggered off an alarm at the local precinct? He stood tensely, listening as the siren swelled and then faded away down US 1.
‘Where’s the control for the gates?’
The servant pointed to a varnished wooden cabinet on the wall.
‘Open them,’ Cawdor said. He raised the gun at arm’s length and touched the man’s glistening forehead, a fraction below the widow’s peak of black hair. ‘And don’t be tempted to press anything else. Just the gates, understand me?’
He stood close behind as the servant opened the cabinet door and flicked a toggle switch. Through the still evening air came the faint whine of hydraulics. The small man took up his burden once more. They went down the driveway and along the road to where the Honda Civic was parked. Daniella saw them coming. She jumped out and helped her mother walk the final few yards. They were both weeping and hugging one another as Cawdor opened the rear door for them to climb in.
The servant backed away, sucking his torn lip and nervously rubbing his thin brown hands. The fear of imminent death was in his darting brown eyes. Cawdor went round the car to get to the driver’s side, walking right by him as if he didn’t exist. He started the car, turned on the lights, manoeuvred the car through a three-point turn and drove off, leaving the man standing there with an expression of slack and incredulous relief.
Cawdor came out of Rowen Oak Drive and eased into the flow of traffic heading north on US 1. His hand was sticking to the wheel, and he now noticed blood oozing from a gash where his hand must have snagged against the splintered edge of the glass door. The cuff of his jacket and the sleeve of his shirt were sodden with it. He bound the wound in his handkerchief, tied a clumsy knot, and pulled it tight with his teeth.
Just south of Melbourne – 85 miles further on and an hour and a half later – he picked up the interstate again. It was pretty quiet at this late hour, ideal for making good time with no hold-ups. Cawdor had got the idea fixed in his head, as if there was no remotely feasible alternative, that he was going to drive nonstop all the way back to Franklin, New Jersey.
Of course this was out of the question. A thousand miles or more without sleep or food just wasn’t feasible. But it wasn’t until they were approaching Daytona Beach at ten minutes to one in the morning that reality set in, and the impracticality of what he was attempting finally struck home. Cawdor was well aware what drove this manic compulsion. It was the overriding desire to get Sarah and Daniella as far away as possible from the Beamers and Messiah Wilde and Grace MediaCorp and everything connected with them. As if the mere act of putting distance between them was of itself a cleansing, healing process. Every mile a gradual withdrawal from their clutches; every route marker a wrenching free from that dark aura of evil.
It had been occupying his mind for several minutes before Cawdor realised he was dwelling on revenge. Not revenge for its own sake, of the ‘eye for an eye’ variety: this organisation had to be exposed, and the pernicious influence it was peddling stopped dead in its tracks. His motive wasn’t purely personal. Through their global communications empire the Messengers were spreading the gospel of their creed to millions. They were infiltrating young minds and making converts not only in America but the world over. To the outsider, perhaps, they seemed harmless enough: a media corporation with its own satellite channels and spin-off interests in publishing, music recording and the Internet. And there, Cawdor recognised, was the crux of the problem – convincing a government agency, or someone in the media, that what lay behind Grace MediaCorp and the respectable corporate front it presented to the world at large was nothing less than a ruthless quasi-religious movement whose aim was mass enslavement to a corrupt ideology. Who would believe such a fantastic claim? How and where could he even begin to make himself heard?
And then, out of the blue, Cawdor thought of a way.
A starting point, at least – someone with power and influence in the higher reaches of government.
He was thinking of a Republican senator named Cobb who was related by marriage to Don Carlson. Senator Cobb was a high-profile politician, regularly on TV and in the newspapers, and though Cawdor had never met him he knew that his partner and the senator sometimes attended family gatherings and got along well together. With Cobb on their side, it was a better start than Cawdor could have dreamt of.
With his mind now a little calmer, and clearer, he realised there was no need for this headlong flight through the night. He pulled off 1-95 at Daytona Beach and followed the directions of the first sign he came upon, which happened to be for the Best Western Americano Beach. Ten minutes later he pulled into the forecourt of the white-stucco, five-storey hotel overlooking the ocean.
Cawdor switched everything off and eased back, trying to release the tension in his neck and shoulders. After a moment he turned in his seat to look at his wife and daughter. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, which was how they had ridden since leaving Palm Beach. Sarah leant forward and touched his cheek. She brought his face closer and kissed him. Cawdor had no deep and meaningful words to say, because none existed that were adequate, so he simply smiled at her in the darkened car.
‘Do you know how this feels?’ Sarah asked him, speaking slowly, the sentence dragged out. Cawdor plainly didn’t. Sarah said, ‘It’s like coming back into the light after a long, dark journey.’
Cawdor sighed and smiled. He was very, very happy.
All of a sudden Kersh is getting bad vibes. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He’s even stopped screwing Sue Ellen, which is a very big sign that something is going wrong. And he has a real nasty feeling it’s up to him to put it right.
Damnit, he’s kept to his side of the deal! Given the Messengers everything
they wanted – created his vision of the perfect world – and they’ve gone and made a hash of things. So what now? They expect him to fix it, sort the mess out alone?
Well, not quite alone. A crafty smile transfigures Kersh’s narrow face. Don’t get uptight, Frankie boy. After all, he’s got Baby Sam to help him. That leaking brown sleazebag will come up with something really ace, Kersh feels sure. One or two little surprises. Oh, yes indeedy. Cawdor has a long way to go yet. A long way to go.
Kersh gets up from the couch, slapping his fist into his palm, filled with new resolve. He pads to the bathroom and sluices his head with cold water. He needs to think clear and straight. No more booze and no more screwing until the situation is under control. He stares at himself in the mirror, water dripping from the lank tails of his plastered hair, trying to read the expression in his one good eye.
Maybe just a faint gleam of fear? (Cawdor is a threat, no sense denying it.) But Kersh is glad to see another expression there, too. The sly glint of old that convinces him he can fight his way out of any corner because there’s nothing he won’t stop at, not a single trick he won’t pull, to get Frank Kersh out of a jam. The rest of the punks go so far and no farther. They turn soft and squeamish, don’t have the guts to follow through. That’s where he’s different. He’s prepared to go all the way - and then some. It’s as though something clicks in his brain and he shifts into overdrive. All bets are off. Let her rip. Take it to the limit and never look back, as Bob Dylan might say –
Kersh glimpses something moving behind him in the mirror. He swings round, a blood-red wave of terror clamping his chest tight so that he chokes and gasps for air like a beached fish.
Christ, for a split second there he thought Cawdor had snuck up on him. Practically gave him a bowel movement on the spot. He leans weakly against the washbasin, nervous spasms shooting up the backs of his thighs and making his buttocks quiver.