Let this be the only record of the final resting place of the Lilitongue of Gefreda, known to the dark few as a means to elude all enemies and leave them helpless. Consigned to the depths near the Isle of Devils by order of the Holy Father. May no man exhume it from its watery grave.
He didn't know who "the dark few" were. Maybe Jesuits—they dressed in black, didn't they? But "a means to elude all enemies and leave them helpless" echoed through to his soul.
Tom couldn't think of anyone who more needed to elude his enemies. He'd wanted the map the instant he saw it. And lately, as he'd felt the noose tightening around his neck, the promise of the Lilitongue had called to him.
If he'd been able to grab his stash, he'd have had no need of the thing, wouldn't even have looked for it. But the cash in his backpack wasn't going to get him far. Might be enough to help him disappear for a while, but he'd need lots more to stay invisible.
He needed a way to elude all enemies and leave them helpless.
Am I nuts?
The whole idea was crazy, wishful thinking. A fantasy.
But a part of him sensed truth there. Years ago, out of curiosity, he'd looked into it. He'd found next to nothing about the Lilitongue itself, but he'd come across veiled references to the pope himself—Clement VIII, to be exact—wanting it disposed of. That said a lot.
Maybe it said: Don't mess with it.
But Tom didn't think so. The pope in those times was king of the hill; he didn't need to "elude" his enemies. In fact, a great many people, especially heretics, had needed to elude him. The Spanish Inquisition was still in full swing back in 1598. When it had started in the preceding century, its main targets were Spanish Jews and Moors; but in the sixteenth century a real threat to the Church arose: Protestantism.
Could Pope Clement have assigned the Jesuit map maker to send the Lilitongue to a watery grave because of wild-eyed Lutherans and Presbyterians?
Well, they were heretics. And maybe he didn't want it to fall into their hands. Because it worked.
Or he believed it worked.
But if the inscription was to be believed, Pope Clement had been pretty damn determined to be rid—permanently rid—of the Lilitongue. He sent a ship on a four-week voyage, far off the trade routes, to hide the thing where no one would ever find it. No one considered Bermuda habitable back then—no one dreamed it would ever be inhabited.
Tom had wondered why go to all that trouble. Why not just dump it overboard in midocean?
He'd learned the answer today when he saw the chest shoot to the surface: The Lilitongue floats. And the pope hadn't wanted it washing up on shore.
But to sink an entire ship… that said something.
Maybe it said the Lilitongue was what he needed to save his sorry ass. And maybe it was.
But he hadn't the faintest idea how to use it.
Tom sighed—he'd been doing a lot of sighing lately—and stuffed the sheet back into his backpack, then returned topside for his vodka.
Let's face it, he thought as he took a gulp. I'm fucked. Might as well hold the fuel hose over my head, give myself a good soaking, and light a match.
He shuddered. Couldn't see himself doing that. Although the feds and the powers-that-be in Harrisburg were planning a figurative auto-da-fe for him, he wasn't about to give them the real thing.
He took another slug of Goose.
That didn't mean he might not come to the point where he'd look for another mode of exit, though one kinder and gentler.
"I't'row it right back in de water, me."
Tom looked up and saw a young black girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, standing on the dock, staring at him. Her hair was cornrowed and she wore baggy, cut-off shorts and a stained yellow T-shirt. The nipples of her small, budding breasts poked two little points in the fabric. She was smiling at him.
"Pardon?" he said.
"You hear me."
The homely, brown, short-haired mutt seated beside her on the dock barked. Its pug face hinted that a bulldog had sneaked into its lineage. One of its ears had a chewed look. Its pink tongue lolled as it stared at him and panted.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention."
"I say, I't'row it right back in de water, me."
Her voice was musical but didn't carry the cultured Brit tones of the typical Bermudian black; she sounded more like a Jamaican.
Tom looked at his almost empty vodka cup. "Throw what back?"
Her huge brown eyes bored into his. "Youuuu know."
Tom's mouth had gone a little dry. He took a sip to wet it.
Did she mean the Lilitongue? No. She couldn't know. There hadn't been another boat anywhere near them the whole time they were out today.
Or had there? No telling who had been around while they were underwater. But certainly no one too close—they would have heard the motor, seen the hull. And he was sure no one had been in sight when they'd brought it aboard.
So what was she talking about?
"I'm sorry, miss, but you'll need to be more specific."
Her smile faded. Her hands went to the hem of her T-shirt, gripped it, and slowly started to raise it.
Tom glanced around, nervous. He was an outsider, an illegal one to boot, and here was this local black girl, a minor, about to flash him. And not a soul in sight. She could accuse him of anything.
He licked his lips. "What on earth are you—?"
He never got to finish the sentence and she never got to exposing her breasts. Just her abdomen.
Tom looked, blinked, looked again. He felt his jaw drop, his tongue turn to sand. The cup slipped from his fingers and bounced on the deck.
The girl had a hole through her. Just to the right of her navel. Clear through her. He could see the yellow wall of the marina office shack behind her through the opening.
"T'row it back," she said, then lowered her shirt and walked away.
5
Whistling the chorus from Alice Cooper's "School's Out"—stuck in his head since the second viewing of Dazed and Confused—Jack arrived back at the dock with two sacks of groceries, a bag of ice, and a feeling that he'd wasted nearly a week of his life. Except for a weird, mysterious piece of junk, Tom was in the same straits now as when they'd set sail.
Despite that he was feeling pretty good. He'd talked to Gia. She and Vicks and the baby were all fine. In two days he'd be back with her.
He'd also checked his voice mail. No word yet from Joey.
In a way that was a relief. Meant he hadn't missed out on anything. His rage had receded underwater. Real-life cares seemed a world away down there. He couldn't help feeling guilty about that.
But soon he'd be home and back to the reality of the streets. Soon he'd rejoin the hunt for payback.
Back at the boat, he found Tom sweeping pieces of what looked like shattered ceramic into a pile on the deck. He looked pale, shaken.
"What happened?"
"Dropped a cup."
"You okay? You don't look so hot."
"Don't feel so hot."
"Sick?"
He shook his head and gave Jack a wan smile. "Nah. I guess I'm not used to the active lifestyle. I tend to eat more and exercise less. Maybe that's why the vodka hit me so hard."
Oh, hell, Jack thought. Am I going to have to drive all the way back to the States?
"You're drunk?"
He shook his head. "Don't feel drunk. But I think I hallucinated a little while ago."
"Yeah? What did you see?"
Another head shake. "Too weird to even talk about." He swept the fragments through a scupper and into the water, then pointed to the neatly dressed, middle-aged black man standing by the pump. "Pay the man and let's get out of here."
Jack pulled out his credit card as he approached.
"What's the damage?"
The man looked at the gauge and said, "Two thousand seven hundred and two dollars and seventy cents."
Jack laughed. "Very funny. Now give me the real number."
The man lo
oked at him. "That is the real number, sir."
"Twenty-seven hundred bucks for gas? You've gotta be kidding!"
"Twenty-seven hundred and two bucks, sir. And seventy cents."
Jack looked at the meter. "Twenty-five hundred and seventy-four gallons! This thing only holds seven hundred!"
"Those are liters, sir. In gallons that would be somewhat less than seven hundred, but not much."
"Liters?"
Jack studied the sign over the diesel pump: 1.05/L. He'd been so happy to see such a cheap price that his brain apparently had registered only the number and assumed it was the gallon price. He handed over his card. "No wonder everyone around here drives mopeds."
6
Joey climbed the subway steps up to Madison Square Park—which, for some reason he'd never been able to figure, was nowhere near Madison Square Garden. He squinted into the cold wind as he looked around. Benny the Brit had said he'd meet him on the downtown end of the park.
There. Perched on a bench just as promised.
Joey started toward him, praying this wasn't another wasted trip. Despite the support of the big shots in what was left of the families, he'd come up empty. Bel niente. Then a call from Benny. He had something. Didn't know if it would help, but meet him in the park and he'd give Joey what he had.
So here was the park and there sat Benny.
Joey seated himself a couple of feet to Benny's left. He was maybe ten years older than Joey, squat and fat—a real tappo—wearing one of those tweedy British caps that snapped onto the peak.
"Morning, Benny."
He started. "Oh, 'allo, guv. Gave me a bit o' a start there, you did."
Everybody knew Benny wasn't British. He grew up in Flatbush and had never been within a thousand miles of England. But for some reason the ceffo liked to fake an English accent. Did it so much he never stepped out of character now. Trouble was, he wasn't that good. In fact, he was freaking terrible. Picked up his accent from television—the "telly," as he liked to call it—and movies. His accent was bad even by those standards. Drove everybody bugfuck crazy, but Joey would put up with it if Benny had the goods.
"Whatta y'got for me?"
"A bit o' tape is what I got. I tapes everyone who does business wif me, and I caught meself an Arab in the act."
"Which means?"
"Which means I sold the bloke a couple o' Tavor-twos, I did."
Joey gripped the edge of the bench seat. He was sitting next to the stronzo who'd sold the guns that had killed Frankie. He didn't know whether to kill him or kiss him. Because if he had these guys on tape…
Too freaking good to be true. Joey's livelihood was built on peddling too good to be true, so he knew what that usually meant…
"Let me get this straight: You taped an Arab buying a pair of Tavor-twos."
"'Sright, mate."
"So why the fuck didn't you tell me that the first I asked you about it?"
Benny leaned back, looking scared, and Joey realized he'd been pretty damn near shouting.
"Easy, mate. Don't 'ave to shout. I ain't Mutt an' Jeff. An' the reason I never said nuffin' was I didn't 'ave it then."
Joey worked at calming himself but wasn't doing such a hot job.
"Whatta you mean you didn't—?"
"'Ere now, don't get yer knickers in a twist. I only taped them yesterday. Got on the dog and bone and called you right away, I did."
"Yesterday? What the fuck good is that? Frankie was killed two weeks ago!"
"Think about it, guv: The blighters left their guns at the airport, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So they might be needing replacements. Not to mention the fact that he bought two 'undred hollow-points to go wif 'em. Bit much to be a coincidence, i'nit?"
Joey thought about that. Jesus, if this wasn't a freakin' coincidence, then that meant…
"You wouldn't happen to have that tape on you, would you?"
"Right 'ere in me sky rocket, mate."
Benny pulled a manila envelope out of his coat pocket and held it out. Joey snatched it and clutched it with both hands.
"And that's not all," Benny said. He pulled a plastic bag out of another pocket. Joey recognized a pistol magazine. "This 'ere's a li'l somethin' the blighter 'andled while 'e was shoppin'. Got 'is prints all over it, it does."
Joey took the Baggie and stared at the magazine.
Oh man, oh man, oh man. If this panned out…
"Got a name or something to go with these?"
"Don't get to 'ear many names in me business, mate. No credit cards neither. Strictly bangers and mash. But I fink you know that."
Yeah, Joey knew that. But it never hurt to ask.
"Thanks, Benny."
"Under normal circumstances I would 'ave told those pandies to bugger right off—I'll not be sellin' to the likes o' them—but I remembered you was lookin' for blokes of that ilk, so I made the transaction. Just for you, mate. Just for you."
Not to mention a heaping plate of "bangers and mash" to boot.
"I'll remember this, Benny. Anything I can ever do for you—"
"Just find those pandies and give 'em what fer." He hauled himself off the bench. "And now I'm off to see me trouble and strife. Left 'er in Macy's, I did. Spendin' me into the poor 'ouse, most likely."
Joey was aware of Benny moving off and taking his bad accent with him, but he didn't say good-bye. He sat in the blessed silence and stared down at the envelope.
A video of a gun-buying Arab. Great. But what was he going to do with it? How did he go about ID-ing thefiglio di puttana? Where did he go from here?
He didn't know. Have to think on that. But he didn't let it get him down.
Finally, something.
7
Tom had been strangely subdued as he'd piloted the Sahbon along the channel through the reef. They made it to open ocean before nightfall and headed toward the dying glow on the horizon.
After entering the coordinates for Wanchese harbor and setting the autopilot, he turned to Jack.
"Want to take the first watch?"
Jack couldn't see why not.
"Sure."
"Good. Because I'm bushed. I'm going below for a little shut-eye."
So now, after a couple of hours of dividing his attention between the empty ocean ahead and the dwindling lights of Bermuda behind, Jack was bored out of his skull. On the trip out, the concerns of being a novice sailor in the middle of the ocean, inexperienced with the navigation equipment and bound for an unfamiliar—at least to him—destination, had kept him alert and attuned. Now it seemed like old hat. The Sahbon was heading home and he was confident he could get it there on his own.
He took a good look around to confirm that no other running lights were in sight, then descended to the pilothouse to use the head.
He found Tom sitting on his bunk holding a coffee cup and watching the TV. Dazed and Confused again. Didn't he ever get tired of that movie?
Look who's talking, Jack thought.
He'd seen certain favorite films dozens of times.
"Thought you were grabbing some z's."
When Tom didn't answer Jack took a closer look.
Oh, shit. Is he sloshed?
Maybe, maybe not, but those looked like tears in his eyes.
"You okay?"
He shook himself, did a quick eye wipe with his sleeve, then pointed to the screen.
"That was me, you know."
Jack looked. The Slater character—Jack didn't know the actor's name—was on the screen.
"A stoner?"
"No. I did my share, for sure, but I mean the times. The mid-seventies were my high school years. I'm looking at me and my friends. Jesus, we never knew how good we had it back then. I mean, the whole future, the whole world lay before us, ours for the taking. So I took it. And screwed it up."
He sipped from his coffee cup. Jack knew it wasn't coffee.
Tom's troubles were his own doing, yet Jack couldn't help feeling a twinge of pity.
He looked around for the sea chest, didn't see it in the cabin, so he opened the door to the bow compartment. There he found it bungeed into place near the anchor. He felt an unexplainable urge to grab it, haul it up on deck, and toss it overboard.
Instead he closed the door and turned to Tom.
"What's the real story with that thing?"
"I don't know. I'd hoped for something readily convertible into cash—like doubloons and such. But who knows? Maybe the Lilitongue's worth more."
"How do you know that's what you've got? You didn't find anything in the chest that identified it."
"Don't you worry, it's the Lilitongue. I'm sure of it." He grinned. "Besides, 'Gefreda' opened the chest, didn't it?"
He had a point. "Okay, let's just say you're right. You know, but how do you prove it? How do you sell something you can't even identify?"
Tom held up a finger. "I can find a way in Philly. We've got U of P, the Franklin Institute, plus all sorts of museums like the Mutter and the Glen-cairn. A gallimaufry of resources. Somebody in that city has to have heard about it, or at least know where to look it up."
"Maybe, but it could take you a year to find that somebody. And you'll never get to spend it if you're locked in a jail cell."
"Yeah, I'm going to have to do a lot of artful dodging. Especially since I'm not supposed to leave Philly. I got an exception made for Dad's funeral but—"
"So that's why you couldn't come right away."
"Right."
A sudden realization slammed Jack. "What about now? Where do they think you are at this moment?"
Tom took a sip of vodka. "Philly."
"Jesus, Tom! You skipped?"
"In a word, yes."
"You're a fugitive?"
"Not officially. Not until they find out I'm gone."
"Jesus, Tom!"
"Will you stop saying that?"
"I don't know what else to say. I've been thinking this trip was one colossal waste of time, but now it's worse. I'm with a guy the feds will be hunting, if they aren't already. If they catch up to you, they catch me too—"
"Always about you, hmmm?"
"Damn straight! From what you've told me, you've got nothing left to lose. I have everything."
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