by Marty Steere
The Senator looked away for a moment, clearly annoyed. Still studying something on the other side of the room, he asked, “What are we doing about it?”
“We’ve refocused the mission,” Krantz said. “It’s no longer a containment. We’re eliminating the players.”
Burton gave him a hard look. “Are any of them veterans? You know how I feel about our veterans. And you know everything that entails.”
Krantz understood completely. “Well, technically, our guy,” he replied. “But that can’t be helped. He’s the dangerous one.”
“I agree with that,” said Burton. “The rest are civilians. Expendable. Ok.” He stood, signaling that their meeting was at an end.
As Krantz stood, the Senator gave him one more piercing look. “Sooner rather than later,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Otherwise, you know what has to be done. And I would just personally hate to see that. Do you follow me?”
One last time, Krantz nodded. He did.
7
When Nate came downstairs in the morning, he found Patricia Gale already up, standing at the stove when he entered the kitchen.
“Morning,” he said.
She turned her head slightly and, with more animation than she’d displayed in the short time he’d known her, she replied, “Good morning, Nate.”
Nate wasn’t sure whether it was the sleep he’d gotten, Patricia’s good nature or the delightful smells that engulfed him, but he suddenly felt more alive than he had in days.
“How do you take your coffee?” Patricia had turned and was holding out a mug. He could see steam rising from the top.
Surprised, he replied, “Black.”
She set the mug down on the table in the center of the room. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’m making breakfast.”
Shaking his head, Nate dutifully sat and took a sip of the coffee. It tasted wonderful.
They were in the Dayton home, a large, rambling two-story structure that sat alone at the end of a narrow spit of land jutting out into Frenchman Bay, a few miles outside of town. The previous afternoon, they’d made the drive to the house in the rain, Margaret Dayton leading the way in her pickup truck. Margaret, who, it turned out, went by Maggie, had refused to let Nate even begin to explain why he had suddenly shown up in Maine with his brothers and Mason Gale’s sister in tow until he’d had a chance to get into some dry clothes. When they arrived at the house, she showed him to one of several rooms on the second floor and returned shortly with a change of clothes that fit remarkably well.
As the gray, dreary day settled into night, they’d all gathered in the great room on the first floor in front of a fire that Maggie had lit in the large fireplace. Nate then told how he, Peter and Buster had come to make the three-day journey across country from Los Angeles to Bar Harbor, picking up Matt and Patricia along the way. Maggie and her great uncle Tim, the man Nate had met briefly that afternoon at Dixon’s Wharf, had listened in rapt attention. Maggie was visibly distraught when she heard about the horrific scene in Nate’s condo and the story Patricia told them about her encounter with the dark-eyed man. When she heard about Eunice Gale’s death, Maggie quietly got up from the sofa, crossed the room and embraced Patricia.
After he finished, the six of them sat in silence for a long time, the crackling of the logs in the fireplace the only sound. Finally, Maggie announced, “I think you’ve all been through a lot, and you could stand a good night’s sleep. Tim and I have to be up before dawn tomorrow, so we need to turn in. Please make yourselves at home, and we’ll be back in the afternoon.”
And, with that, they’d all retired to separate rooms, and Nate had finally gotten a good night’s sleep.
As Nate was sipping his coffee, Peter walked into the kitchen and paused, apparently as taken with the marvelous smells as Nate had been. Patricia turned with another mug of coffee in her hand, but she stood and appraised him without speaking. Peter looked from Nate to Patricia and back. Finally, he cocked his eyebrows.
“Peter,” said Patricia. “Good morning.”
Nate chuckled. It had been a long time since he’d watched people struggle with the difficult task of telling Peter and Matt apart. Nate had never had any problem with it, but, aside from Gamma and their father, nobody else had ever been able to distinguish one from the other with any consistency.
Patricia handed the coffee to Peter and waved him to a seat at the table across from Nate. As Peter pulled back the chair and sat, he gave Nate an inquiring look. Nate shrugged.
“It’s nice of you to make breakfast,” Nate ventured.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Patricia said. “I found the ingredients and figured I ought to do something to contribute.” She set the spatula she’d been using aside, lifted a pair of plates and laid them down in front of Nate and Peter. Each contained a stack of pancakes, golden brown and fluffy. From a carafe on the table, Nate poured some maple syrup over them and, when he took a bite, discovered they tasted as good as they looked. He and Peter dug into the meal as if it were their first in days.
As they were finishing, Patricia took a seat at the end of the table and folded her hands in front of her. Quietly, she asked, “So, what are we going to do?”
It was a question Nate had been struggling with himself. And he’d yet to find a satisfactory answer. After a moment he said, “I think we need to talk about that when Matt gets up.”
“I’m up.”
Nate glanced reflexively toward the doorway and was startled to see Matt standing just inside. He’d made no sound entering.
“How do you do that?” Nate asked.
Matt simply shrugged. Then he took a seat at the end of the table opposite Patricia, folded his own hands and gave Nate a level look. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Nate noticed Patricia looking from Matt to Peter with undisguised curiosity. It was certainly understandable. When they weren’t speaking or gesturing, each appeared to be the mirror image of the other. But, Nate saw, there was more than just curiosity in Patricia’s gaze. Something about them clearly troubled her.
He turned his attention to his brothers. Though they were sitting only a few feet apart, neither acted as if the other were present. He asked himself whether that had been the case since they’d gotten together in Idaho a couple days before, and he knew the answer even as he posed the question. Not at every moment, perhaps, but for the most part it had. It was just that they’d all been under so much stress, he hadn’t focused on it.
He felt a stab of guilt. He would have to address it, he told himself. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he would. First, however, they had the problem of dealing with people who were trying to kill them.
He glanced at Patricia. “I need to finish reviewing Peter’s research. Maybe there’s nothing there, but I won’t know until I do. For that, I’ll need a few hours of quiet time. Then,” he said, refocusing on Matt and returning his look with a level one of his own, “we need a plan to deal with your former…” and he paused, searching for the right word. Finally, he settled on “acquaintances.”
Matt nodded. “I’m working on that.”
“Well,” Peter said, sliding his chair back and standing. “I’ll go get the documents. Thank you, Patricia,” he added, giving her a tight smile. He nodded briefly to Nate, then left the room without a glance at Matt.
After he was gone, the three of them sat quietly for a minute. Finally, Patricia cleared her throat. “How did you know that man in the picture?” She was looking at Matt. This time, Nate could not decipher her expression.
Matt, it appeared to Nate, seemed almost to wince. He studied his folded hands for several seconds. Then he raised his eyes, met Patricia’s gaze, and said, simply, “We worked for the same company.”
Patricia blinked a couple of times, then looked away. Without turning back, she asked, “Doing the same kinds of things?”
Matt didn’t answer right away. Patricia returned her attention to him, and they stared at each other. Then Matt nodded and sa
id in a quiet voice, “And worse.”
She nodded slowly, her expression not changing. “At some point you stopped.”
“I did.”
She continued nodding. They sat in awkward silence, Nate searching for something to say that would lighten the mood. Finally, Patricia rose and stepped over to the stove. A moment later, she returned with a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes. Without a word, she placed both in front of Matt. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Matt looked at Nate. His face was stoic, but Nate could see a profound sadness in his brother’s eyes.
#
Raen was frustrated.
Five days had passed since they’d lost contact with the Cartwrights. It was as if the three of them had dropped off the face of the planet. Worse, they had apparently hooked up with the other Gale woman. Her car had been found a block away from her home, but there was no sign of her. Raen wasn’t sure what that portended, but he knew it couldn’t be good, given the fact that The Organization had gone to great lengths to keep them from talking to one another.
The responses from headquarters to his reports over the past few days had been consistent. And insistent. Find them. Terminate them.
The coroner had determined that Eunice Gale’s death had been by asphyxiation, and the police also suspected foul play in the disappearance of Patricia Gale. A full alert had gone out to all law enforcement agencies. Thanks to The Organization’s influence, Nathaniel and Peter Cartwright were wanted for questioning. So far, however, there had been no reliable leads.
Raen set down the latest batch of reports and leaned back in his chair. He was in the command center they’d set up at a Marriott near the Minneapolis - St. Paul International Airport. He’d now been in one place for three days. He was bored. He was restless.
And he was frustrated.
He cleared his mind and started from the beginning. He’d originally been tasked with ensuring that Peter Cartwright drop any further attempts to contact Eunice and Patricia Gale or to investigate Apollo 18. Therefore, obviously, there was a connection between the Cartwrights and the Gales. And it had something to do with a tragedy that had occurred while Raen was still in diapers. When the assignment had been given to him, of course, he’d inquired about it. But he was politely informed that it was none of his damn business, and he knew better than to push it. Still, there had to be something there. After a couple of minutes, he stood and crossed the room. One of the operatives attached to his action team was at a computer, scanning police reports. He tapped the man on his shoulder and gestured for him to get up. The man nodded and immediately relinquished his seat.
Raen sat and minimized the program in which his operative had been working. He called up the internet, opened a public search engine and typed in “Apollo 18.” There were numerous hits. He selected one at random and opened it. He immediately saw two names that he recognized.
Bob Cartwright and Mason Gale had been two of the three Apollo 18 astronauts. That was interesting. He had no idea what it meant, but it was still interesting. He focused on the name of the third astronaut, Steve Dayton, and stared at it for several seconds. Then he looked up and motioned to the operative whose seat he had taken. The man, who was standing discretely a few feet away, stepped over. Raen tapped the screen.
“I want a full dossier on this man and all living relatives. And I want it yesterday.”
He had the report in less than an hour.
Steve Dayton had been an only child. His parents were dead. He had one living uncle on his father’s side, Timothy Dayton. He’d married, but his wife had died six years earlier. They’d had one child, Margaret Dayton.
Raen finished scanning the file, then he went back and carefully read through it a second time. He set it aside and thought for a moment, before standing and walking to the door that led to another of the rooms in the suite. Dacoff was seated at a table just inside. He had on a set of headphones, and he was hunched over, making notes. The movement in the doorway caught his attention, and he glanced up, pushing the speaker off one of his ears.
“Find Ozaki,” Raen said, “and tell him we leave in ten minutes.”
“Oh yeah?” Dacoff asked, with interest. “Where are we going?”
Raen was already on the move, and he tossed the one word answer back over his shoulder.
“Maine.”
#
The Sarah Lynne lifted and dropped in the gentle swells, and, for a moment, a breeze carried away the stench wafting from the bait tank and, in its place, came a salty ocean redolence. While the bright mid-day sun didn’t provide much warmth, it was a pleasant change from the rain and dreariness of the past two days.
Nate closed his eyes and breathed in the salt air. He’d spent most of the previous day poring over the papers that Peter had assembled. He still had a ways to go before he’d be through them, but he’d needed a break, and this, it had turned out, was the perfect change of pace.
Maggie’s regular stern man, a fellow named Eddie, had developed a case of adult mumps a few days earlier, leaving Maggie shorthanded for one of the most important stretches in the lobster fishing season. Her Uncle Tim, who had been a lobster man for decades, and whose former license and boat she’d inherited after her mother passed away, suffered from arthritis in his hands and legs, so he was not able to give her a full day’s worth of work. The traps, however, needed to be emptied and refreshed, so he’d been doing his best to try to fill in. When Nate learned this, he offered to come along with them the next day and help, and Maggie and Tim had readily taken him up on the suggestion.
They’d started out early that morning, before daybreak. Maggie piloted the Sarah Lynne up the coast as the sun was rising, and they began hauling traps. Nate watched Tim for a while and discovered that the procedure was relatively simple. The locations of traps were marked by buoys painted in the unique colors associated with their owners’ licenses. The Dayton buoys were blue with an almost fluorescent orange stripe near the top. Maggie steered the boat up to each buoy, and either she or Tim gaffed it using a long hooked pole, then pulled it up into the boat. Maggie attached the line leading off the buoy to a winch called the pot hauler, and a series of traps were pulled up from the bottom of the ocean, one at a time.
As each trap was brought up, it was positioned on the narrow shelf that ran along the starboard gunwale. While Tim emptied the trap, Maggie hauled the next on the line, so that it was ready when Tim finished. Tim opened the trap by releasing a hinged handle, and he retrieved any lobsters that had been lured in by the bait. Only lobsters of a certain size were retained. If they were too small or too large, they were tossed back into the water, the smaller ones to continue growing and the larger ones to serve as breeding stock, thereby, Nate was informed, ensuring the continued viability of the fishing grounds. If there was any question, Tim used a metal device called a lobster gauge that was notched on one side to show the minimum acceptable size and on the other to show the maximum.
The lobsters had immense claws, and the first time Tim reached into a trap with his bare hands to retrieve one of the creatures, Nate cringed. Tim had been doing it for so long, however, it came as second nature to him. He would grip the lobster by its back, lift it out, measure it if its size was in doubt, then either return the lobster to the sea or toss it into a large container in the center of the boat.
One of the lobsters they caught turned out to be a female bearing eggs attached along the underside of her body. Using a crimping tool, Tim made a small notch in the lobster’s tail, a defect, he told Nate, that would forever save her from being taken, and he threw her back in the water. When he was done sorting through the catch in each trap, Tim replaced the mesh bag with a fresh set of bait, a foul concoction of fish consisting mostly of herring. Then he re-attached the lid and tossed the trap back into the water. Tim and Maggie developed a rhythm, so that, just as Tim was finishing with one trap, another would slide into place.
After watching Tim handle several traps
, Nate felt that he had the hang of it, and he switched places with the older man. Not willing to put his bare hand into the traps, Nate wore a pair of gloves Maggie had given him. Even so, the first lobster he pulled out had been an adventure. In almost no time, however, he found himself confidently reaching in and gripping the squirming crustaceans. Tim had looked on for a while, making pointers. Then he’d thumped Nate on the shoulder and made his way to the back of the boat where he leaned against the transom, pulled out his paperback, and contented himself with reading.
They were now drifting about a mile and a half out. Off their starboard bow was a tiny island, little more than a rock, its entire surface taken up by a forlorn looking miniature lighthouse. The three of them stood around the tank in which the lobsters they’d collected had been tossed, and they were in the process of “banding” the morning’s haul, placing a thick rubber band around each claw with a tool that looked like a pair of pliers. Though they’d spent quite a bit of time talking throughout the morning, the three of them had now fallen into a companionable silence.
Nate had gratefully allowed himself to be immersed in the mindless activity, and he was startled when Tim spoke. “What do we have here?”
Nate glanced up, then followed Tim’s gaze. Ahead of them, in the distance, just off their port beam, was another boat, closing fast. Maggie stepped over to the left side of the wheelhouse and peered at the approaching vessel. After a moment, she said, “Marine Patrol.” She looked back at Nate and Tim with a slightly puzzled expression. “That’s odd.”