THE CARBON STEEL CARESS

by GC Smith

  “That horrible detective insisted that I leave so I wouldn't know where she was going to stay. Really, it was so childish. She had already told me where. Why wouldn't she tell me, I'm her dearest friend.”

  “Really,” Capers said. “Then you have an address.”

  “Well no, she didn’t say, but she did say on the Island. The gall of that Donal, implying that I'm not to be trusted.”

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  October 22

  Donal unlocked the door and stepped inside, reaching for the wall switch. “Don't turn on the lights.”

  “Jerry, for Christ's sake, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry friend. I don't need anyone but you to know

  I'm here.”

  “Being a bit dramatic, aren't you?”

  “Can't be too careful.”

  “O.K., Jerry, enough nonsense.” Donal snapped on the lights.

  A leprechaun sat in Donal's battered chair, grinning. With a shrug he said, “So I get a kick out of cloak and dagger.” He handed Donal an envelope, asking, “Victoria, how is she?”

  “She's fine, she's coming home.”

  “Excellent, Johnny. It upset me when I heard. Made me angry. This entire mess goes back to Jack Faulkner's arrogance.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It's all in there,” McMichaels said, nodding toward the envelope. “I'll let myself out.”

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  Hilton Head Island

  Beaufort County, SC

  October 23

  The conversation with Feathers convinced Capers that he had achieved his aim. Hitting Trent had, as he knew it would, terrorized Claudia and it had driven her to seek safe harbor. Thanks to Feathers, Capers knew that she had chosen wrong. Hilton Head of all the possibilities couldn’t have better suited to Capers; it fit perfectly with what he had in mind. The island, despite the large tourist population, wasn’t Manhattan. He’d find her. And, as the island was his home, he could operate at his leisure. He went out to his car.

  ***

  At the marina Capers found his partner Ralph Hutchins hunched over a scandal sheet. “Did you see this,” Hutchkins asked? “Another story about that Chatrian broad and the psycho what kidnapped her. Man-oh-man, there’s been stuff in the papers every day about that whack job and the Chatrian babe. Didja know she was born right here on the island. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  Capers, hardly listening, looked with no real interest over Hutchkins’s shoulder at the newspaper and said, “Probably caught the killer by now.”

  “Could maybe,” Hutchins said, “By the way, I had me quite a day here. Closed the deal on a new line of nautical clothing for the marina store and I arranged a lease on a big Hatteras from Hezzie Scully’s yard. We could make us a fuckin’ bundle if we expand the place ‘nough that we kin do our own brokering and leasing. That Hats the fourth big cruiser I placed through Scully this month.”

  Capers, deciding to humor Hutchkins, said, “Let me see the figures on that Hatteras.”

  Hutchins pushed the file folder across the desk. “Take a look at them there numbers and tell me we shouldn’t jump into the leasing racket with both feet. We dredge out for a couple a more deep slips and we can have room to broker and lease the big stuff. Cut out the middleman.”

  Capers looked and what he saw more than paid for this investment in the marina partnership. The lease papers were made out to John Donal Associates.

  “Let’s split and get us a drink, partner,” Hutchkins said. “Talk some more about makin us some bucks.”

  ***

  Capers spent an hour and a half with Hutchkins over drinks at his partner’s favorite bar. It seemed the longest hour and a half in his life. He pumped Hutchkins but his partner, despite blabbering on and on, didn’t know where Claudia Chatrian was staying. Capers made an excuse and escaped the bar leaving Hutchkins behind.

  Sitting on the deck of his apartment above the marina office Capers turned over his plan, savoring, anticipating. His view overlooked the marina slips and beyond to the spartina grass and the sound. He walked to the deck rail, scanning the slips, his attention attracted by activity on the Hatteras. A man and a woman appeared topside. The woman wore a large, floppy brimmed straw hat and dark sunglasses. No disguise for Capers who recognized her immediately --Claudia Chatrian. They were coiling and stowing lines, obviously readying the Hatteras to leave. Where the hell were they going? More importantly, when were the returning?

  Capers’s euphoria vanished, replaced by piercing stabs of head pain.

  Mike reversed the engines on the cruiser and eased her from the slip. The big boat shuddered as he changed to forward and hauled her over toward the channel that led from the marina’s shelter to the open water of Calibogue Sound. A chubby black kid, his rusty bicycle propped against a bulkhead, waved as they passed.

  Out about a mile and a half from the shore Mike opened up the diesels. He made small adjustments to throttle positions and the tachometer needles, steadied at twenty five hundred rpm, the syncro light confirming that the engines were running at match speed. For several minutes he stood in the cockpit listening, scanning the horizon. He checked the compass bearing and satisfied with his course, locked in the autopilot.

  In the marina office, Capers asked the blond kid whom Hutchkins employed to handle the retail end of the business, “Ralph come back yet?”

  The girl looked up from a trashy, Desire Series, romance paperback in her hand and said, “He came and left again. Said he was going to pick up some boat parts.” She gave Capers a toothy come-on smile, stretching her tee shirt by pulling back her shoulders and thrusting sharp tipped adolescent breasts forward.

  Capers touched the razor in this trouser pocket.

  “He better get back soon.” She glanced at the wall clock. “I have to go to the dentist for my checkup at four-thirty.” She held the pose and smiled again displaying perfect white teeth.

  “Go, “ Capers said. “I’ll take care of things here.”

  “What a fuckin’ afternoon, “ Hutchkins said, dropping wearily into his desk chair and glancing at his partner. “After you split from the bar, I chased my ass all to hell and gone lookin’ for gaskets that’ll fit the heads in Charlie McGuire’s cruiser engines. Fucker’s got Volvos. Gonna take two weeks to get ‘em up here from the distributor. McGuire’ll shit, he hears this.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass,” Capers said.

  “Damn straight. McGuire wants all kind of attention and he’s all a time lookin’ for cut rate. We don’t need his kind of bidness. Need more like them folks leasing the Hatteras.”

  “I saw those people go out on the ‘Royalty’ about a half hour ago. Wondered where they were taking her,” Capers said, certain that if Hutchkins knew he would tell.

  “Sullivan fella called earlier and told me they was gonna run her down to Hezzie Scully’s yard. The auxiliary generator’s kickin’ up some. Told him that I’d get someone to take her down and get her fixed but Sullivan said he’d take her. They’s gonna stay overnight at the Grand Hotel on Tybee. Scully’s gonna drop them off at the hotel and run the Hatteras back over to them in the mornin’.”

  “Grand’s a nice resort. Should enjoy themselves.”

  Caper’s mind moved swiftly, planning. The Grand. Excellent. It would be tonight. “Be back Friday night,” Capers said to Hutchkins. “Marina owner’s association reps are meeting with the Coastal Commission people in Columbia. I want to sit in. The association folks think they can make some headway on killing the proposed Intracoastal Waterway user fees.”

  “Man, I hope so. They get fees to float on the waterway it’ll murder our bidness.”

  CHAPTER FOURTY NINE

  Tybee Island

  October 23

  The lobby of the Grand, crystal chandeliered and carpeted in thick burgundy plush with springy under-padding, was crammed with guests registering for the Coastal Empire golf tournament set to start the n
ext morning on the hotel course. Capers elbowed his way through the throng and caught a front desk clerk’s eye. “Has the Sullivan party checked in yet?”

  The clerk flicked fingers across a computer keyboard and glanced at the registration monitor. “Yes, sir. Would you like me to ring their cottage and announce you? You can pick up the red courtesy phone in the lobby.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll call later.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Columbia, SC

  October 23

  The blond beauty who Faulkner had been seeing since the night of the Wiley reception stormed out of the inner office to the anteroom. Her face was crimson. “Pig,” she shouted over her shoulder. Donal watched as she slammed the door. He opened it and stepped inside. Jack Faulkner was zipping his fly.

  Faulkner, unembarrassed, walked behind a wide executive desk that was placed squarely in the center of his office at SLED headquarters. He sat. “What the hell do you want, Donal?” he asked.

  Donal unimpressed by the immense scale of the office and its designed-to-intimidate furnishings, said, “Help with finding your ex agent, Micah Capers.”

  “What ex agent. Never had anyone named Capers in SLED.”

  “Bullshit. He worked for you.”

  “There’s no Capers.”

  Donal stared at him. “Come on, Faulkner.”

  “Goddammit, Donal. I don't need shit from a rent-a-cop. Get off my ass.”

  “Give me what I need and I'll back off.”

  Faulkner drew a deep breath. “Is that an or else in your tone?”

  “Damn right. You help me or I give the media the whole story on Capers and SLED. You ran him, I can prove it. And that you were forced to fire him because he’s a sociopath. It'll make front page in every paper in the State, guaranteed.” Donal tossed Faulkner a photocopy of a memo, subject Capers, addressed from Ellerby to Faulkner. He leaned back in his chair, hands locked behind his head, regarding the man opposite him.”

  “This is bogus. A forgery. Your source sucks.”

  “It’s what I have in addition to that memo that’ll count.”

  Faulkner glanced again at the sheet of paper and asked flatly, “What would that be?”

  “Stuff that’ll kill your career. We'll talk about exactly what I have when I get what I'm after.”

  Faulkner shrugged. “I’ll look into this Capers guy. I can't promise to come up with anything but . . .

  Donal rose from his chair. “I hear from you by tomorrow morning. Ten at the latest or my information goes public.” He let himself out of Faulkner's office.

  Faulkner rocked back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The Capers mess was out of hand. He glanced down at the photocopy of the memo that recorded the decision to fire Capers and the reasons behind that decision. How had Donal gotten it? And how much more incriminating information does the bastard have?

  Worry about that later, Faulkner thought. Now’s time to finish with Capers. He went into a file room. Might be best to use Donal, he decided, as he pulled the manila folder with Capers's history from a cabinet. Donal could be the answer to my troubles.

  Tybee Island, GA

  October 23

  The desk clerk’s mention of a cottage had narrowed the area for Capers's search. He prowled the cottage section of the resort grounds and, as the sun dropped on the horizon, he watched Mike Sullivan enter unit 7b. He dragged a poolside chair deep into the evening shadows and waited. They'd leave the cottage eventually and he'd be there.

  Capers’s linen blazer covered the butt of the nine millimeter automatic slipped into his trousers' waistband. He patted the grip of blue steel handgun. He had left his Uzi and his scoped, breakdown rifle, a customized Henry .227 center fire and spare ammunition clips, in the fitted case stowed in the trunk of the car. No need for them here.

  Their voices came clearly through the screened windows of the cabin. From time to time one of them was silhouetted against the sheer drapery that covered the window wall.

  Capers listened, annoyance growing as the wait extended. He heard Sullivan's voice, “Too early for dinner. What do you want to do?”

  “I don't care.”

  The bitch's voice.

  “I feel kind of lazy,” she said. “Sun always gets me. We could play cards, if you feel like it.”

  “O.K. by me. Poker?”

  Claudia's response was clearly audible to Capers. “Five card draw, one eyed jacks.” Capers watched as they seated themselves at a table, the bitch reaching for the deck of cards. He heard her say, “Dollar ante. Five dollar limit.” She dealt and arranged the cards in her hand. “How many?”

  “Three.”

  “Dealer stands. To you.”

  “Dollar.”

  Capers listened, aggravation growing as the betting went around twice.

  “Call,” the bitch's voice.

  Sullivan's voice. “Ace diamonds, ace spades, jack spades, jack hearts, trey diamonds.”

  Baby sister replying; “Read and weep, Irish. Full boat.”

  They continued playing, bantering, getting more and more friendly, almost intimate as time passed.

  Capers glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Nine fifteen, fully dark now, he had been waiting almost an hour. Pain seared behind his eyes. “Goddamn you,” he muttered, “move.”

  He heard the woman say, “My God, it's after nine.

  We'd better dress for dinner.”

  They rose from the table and moved from the room, their shapes indistinct behind the sheer curtain.

  Capers's lips compressed to a thin smile as he savored imminent pleasure. He would intercept them on the path from the cabin to the main hotel building. His car was ready, moved to the back quarter of the lot, parked against a screen of Hibiscus. Sullivan could drive to a swamp. Then die. He’d dump his body, gator food. Take Claudia back to Hilton Head for her last night on earth.

  The headache pain diminished as Capers touched the bone handle of the razor, his talisman. “Endgame,” he whispered.

  Claudia returned the photograph of Harry Trent to her handbag and wiped a single tear from her cheek. “Don't allow yourself to cry,” she said to the dressing room mirror. “Not now. Not ever again.” She scrubbed makeup from her face and re-applied, finishing with a few drops of Eye-Clear. She put

  on a pale pink silk bra and bikini panties that carried her own CC logo and a matching garter belt. She smoothed sheer stockings on her long legs, clipped their lace tops to the garters, and slipped into Italian sling back pumps. She donned an Yves St. Laurent dress. She made a final mirror check and silently admonished herself. No more tears. Get on with life. You're Claudia Chatrian.

  She thought again for a fleet second of Harry; dead. Of Donal and the bullet meant for him and taken by his lover, Victoria. “Dammit,” she said, “pull yourself together. No more mood swings. Donal will stop him.”

  The cabin door opened and they came outside. Capers watched as Sullivan checked the lock, and, with Claudia, start up the dimly lit path to the hotel. Capers left the concealing shadows, timing his moves to reach them where the path branched off to the parking lot. He stayed back thirty yards, his hand on the grip of the automatic. He had begun to increase the pace of his stride when he heard the shout.

  “Carey. Hey you, Carey.”

  Capers stopped. A man approached from the shadows of a side path leading from another Oceanside cabin. Capers let the fabric of his sport jacket fall back over the automatic and turned to face the approaching man.

  Hearing the voices, Mike Sullivan glanced over his shoulder. The men standing on the path were indistinguishable in the shadows thrown by the soft mushroom style ground lights that lined the paths.

  Claudia and Mike continued on toward the main building. She slipped her hand into his.

  Charlie McGuire said, “Your partner get them parts for my boat yet? I’m gonna need her. Bonefish tournament in the Keys next week. Take me a coupla days to run her on down.”

  Capers answered
, “I don't know when Ralph'll have her ready Charlie. Why don't you call and ask him?”

  “He's had the gud-dum boat for two weeks already. How the hell much time does he need?”

  “Don't tell me your troubles.”

  “You listen here, Carey. What the hell kind of businessman are you?”

  Capers considered shooting the man but dropped the thought stillborn. “Sorry Charlie. I'm a bit testy. I'm on the way to meet with a marine hardware rep. His company stuck us with some second rate stuff and I'm pissed. But I shouldn't snap at you.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Capers walked away from McGuire, headache pain again searing behind his eyes. His prey had disappeared while he was dealing with the interruption. He went to his car and put the automatic into the case in the trunk. He sat in the driver's seat of the BMW, head in hands, praying to his strange Gods to kill the pain. He would not be frustrated again, his half-sister, was within his grasp. He shut his eyes against the pain; images, changing mental holographs, formed against the closed lids.

  Himself with her, alone. 'Baby sister'. Claudia.

  Flash.

  Image of Mother with the man.

  Change. Image forming,

  Himself, alone with 'baby sister.' Caressing her. Touching the carbon steel blade with his free hand.

  A new image forming.

  The man, stepfather, suckling mother.

  Himself reaching for the carbon steel blade. Seeing baby sister now. Hesitating.

  He snapped abruptly to consciousness. Image gone. “No, God damn it, she's no better than any of them. She deserves to die,” he said. He would not be a fool like his step father. He swallowed two Percodan dry and sat for five minutes, eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The pain eased and he started the car and left the Grand Hotel’s parking lot.