Chapter Eighty-Five
The Big Rig
Saturday Morning. December 10
I never followed up on what Wong had told me—about Li Lang. I would never, ever have guessed it...but it is what he said. So...
We drove in silence to the marina and I never raised the issue. It was his business. And besides, it would be his to discuss and his to tell the others when and if he decided to do it. We were at the Pilot House by 11:30 a.m. The winter sun—what there was of it—had already burned off the mist from the water. Richie and Louise readied the boat while I unhooked the gas hose and began to pump fuel into the Canyon’s tanks. The boat drank in the gas like a thirsty marathoner. By the time the tanks were full, the pump read $2,030.00. My wallet groaned, but Wong produced a credit card. “I get reimbursed; no problems, Coop.” And just like that, the Federal Government rescued the little guy.
We cast off. Richie tossed the fore and aft lines on board to Louise and me. We tied them down while Huck took the wheel. He kicked the starter and the three Yamahas roared like hungry lions as the Canyon began to churn its way slowly away from the dock into the No-Wake zone of Lake Largo. It took about twenty minutes to clear the channel that leads to the Straits.
Okay, let’s talk about where we’re going,” Wong said.
“Shark River, right?” I said, turning to him. He saw my confusion.
“No. Change of plans.”
“What?”
“Liu Xue called to warn me about a conversation she overheard between her sister and Lei Sun about a shipment of drugs. She said it would be coming through the Florida Straits and it would be sometime today—either late afternoon or early evening.” I must have continued to look confused because he continued:
“I didn’t tell you because this is Homeland business.”
I shook my head as Huck throttled back. “So where are we going?” Huck said, an edge to that question.
“Toward the Zhi Zhu Nu,” he said. “I think the shipment is originating from there.”
“How do you know that?” I said, irritated that he had kept this secret from us until just now.
“Because Liu Xue thought so. And she was very concerned that her friend, Lei Sun, was in big trouble with her sister. Under the influence of Dragon Lady—her words. She thought that’s where they are now—on the big rig. Get it?” He paused. “And she wants me—Uncle Wong—to save him.” And just like that, he told the others. They showed it by the looks on their faces.
“I know. I still can’t believe it.” He threw up his hands. “You realize I could be putting some of my own family in jail. This could cost me my job!”
I knew what he was really saying: that he would be dishonored in the Chinese community and would not be able to face his family because of the shame his niece had brought to them.
“So, Li Lung is…?”
“My brother,” he said, like he had just been caught in a major crime.
I felt bad for him—and guilty for asking. “So, now what?” I said.
“I’ve ordered a cutter with a copter and a fast boat to the area near the Zhi Zhu Nu—it should be there later this afternoon.”
I was stunned. “You getting ready for an invasion?”
“Gotta be prepared, Cooper. You should know. Used to be a Boy Scout, didn’t you?”
I shook my head. Good old Wong.
“So we wait in the Straits for a while. See what happens,” he continued. Then, as if there were some good news, “Hey, this might be the biggest bust ever. But my family...” And the good news died there.
Chapter Eighty-Six
The Waiting Game
Once we were clear of the canal, Huck eased the throttle forward and we were on our way, south-southwest toward Havana and the Florida Straits. The Canyon has about a 350-statute mile range, but at the rate at which we would be traveling, about forty miles per hour, that range drops significantly. Still plenty of fuel to get us across the Straits and back several times.
We made good time under clear skies with fair weather predicted for the afternoon. But there are always those sudden storms that rise in the Gulf. Mother Nature. She can always change her mind.
Richie and Louise were below. We joined them. Richie was pouring drinks for himself and Louise.
“Make two for us,” I said, looking at Wong.
“Rum and Coke,” he said.
“Double that,” I said.
We sat across from each other, Richie and Louise still standing near the sink.
Wong thought for a moment, looking sheepishly at Louise and Richie. “As you now know, I got family in this gig,” he said, continuing his confession. We all stared and listened. Richie took a swig of a drink that he should have been sipping.
“Hey, no need...” Louise began.
“No, no, no. I need,” Wong said. He thought for a moment as Richie handed him his drink, then continued.
“For a long time, I have suspected that the family of Li Lang has been involved in the drug business. And here I am, Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, fighting against the spread of drugs into our country. Recently, I got word that the Chinese gangs have been taking over the drug business in the Caribbean—from the Columbians. It’s a war. And the Chinese are winning.”
We nursed our drinks while he talked.
“So, when you,”and he was looking at me, “told me your suspicions about the rigs, I figured, yeah, they’re getting sophisticated, and smart, using the rigs like a distribution center. Hey what could be better? A big base in the Caribbean, in Cuban waters, in our ‘can’t touch zone’ and able to ship throughout southeast U.S. Get it? Make money two ways: oil and drugs. And oil is their big front.”
Wong was staring into his drink. “Li Lung is the big kingpin in the U.S. He is the godfather for the Tong on the east coast. Lei Sun is his right-hand man. And...” he continued, “unfortunately,” like he was apologizing, “his daughter thinks she is the Spider Woman.”
We stared at him, in this small space, in this cramped cabin under the console, drinking and saying nothing, waiting for Wong to continue.
“And I am afraid Li Lang is involved—and Lei Sun as well,” he said, still staring at me sidewise, his body slumped forward, like it was broken at the waist.
“I think she is in charge down here.” The sadness in his eyes was like that of a man who had just lost a daughter.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Discovery
They were huddled against the cold, staring at the house when a car pulled up in front of Anthony’s Antique Shop and honked, twice, quickly—small beeps, into the silence.
“That’s gotta be my Uncle Charley,” Joey said.
Maxie looked at the car. It was across the street and down a block. In the dark it looked long and sleek like the car that had taken him away and he jerked back at the sight of it.
“What’s wrong?” said Joey.
“Oh nothing,” said Maxie. “How’d he know where we were?”
“I told him where we would be—near the antique shop across from the college.” He paused. “Like you said,” he added, reassuring his new friend.
Maxie nodded and the car door opened. A tall man—he was thin—stepped out and looked around. He was wearing a long black overcoat—but everything looked black in the dark. And he was wearing a hat. Clothes like the Man wore when he went out.
“Uncle Charley,” said Joey, grabbing Maxie. “Come on, dude,” He started running over to the man, dragging the Boy with him. The man turned to them and held his hand up over his eyes as if to shade them from the street light that was directly overhead.
“Joey!” he yelled out as we approached. “Come on over here, boy!” He held out his arms as Joey practically ran into him. The Boy was liking him already.
“And this is...?” he asked, as Joey pulled away to introduce Maxie.
“My new friend, Maxie,” said Joey, beaming as the man held out his hand and took Maxie’s.
“Hi Maxie, I’m Joe
y’s uncle. So, it’s good to meet you.” He shook Maxie’s hand in a warm and friendly way. “You can call me Charley.” Maxie noticed that the man had a mustache. A big one that ran all the way across his upper lip. It was sprinkled brown and gray.
The Boy nodded and said, “Okay.” He was thinking he would like Joey’s uncle. He waited for the uncle to say something. Then he did.
“So, what are we going to do?” the man continued, this man who was Joey’s uncle, and Maxie was glad Joey had an uncle. And the man in the long coat with the mustache said, “Joey told me that you used to live here,” and he looked around as if to find out where that was.
Maxie pointed to his house on the hill across the street, on the same side of the street as the college. It was dark, and its roof was covered with snow, and he said, “Yeah. Right there.” The house seemed to take on a special life as he said it, memories flooding his mind. He was losing his breath...
“It’s okay,” the uncle said, as if he could see Maxie’s distress. “Joey kind of told me your story.” He was hesitant while he spoke, not wanting to upset the Boy.
“I think my mom and dad are dead,” Maxie said.
Then the three of them looked across at the house as if there were some secret there that would unlock the way to the future, in this large, early 1900s Victorian house, whose windows were dark and unyielding of secrets.
“There’s a mailbox over there,” the boy, Joe E. Lewis, said, pointing to the box on the wall of the porch.
“Of course,” said Joey’s uncle. “Maybe…”
Then all three approached the house by climbing up the bank that Maxie had descended when he chased the ball, and across the lawn where he threw the ball high into the summer air, and up to the porch where he would bang the screen door—his mom always yelled at him when he did that —and finally, to the small white box that hung on the wall. The mailbox.
Then the man, whose name was Charley, looked down at Maxie, and said, “Here goes...” and he lifted up the lid of the mail box and pulled out some letters and other stuff, and began to look through them. But then he paused. “Is this okay, Maxie?”
And, of course, Maxie nodded that it was.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Jillie and Henry
Early Saturday Morning, December 10
Fourteen Shopping Days Before Christmas
Jillie and Henry had stayed inside, through the cold, through the heavy snow that settled over the Inn and over the town of Chagrin Falls, the kind of snowfall that makes Chagrin look like a New England town. They had made love in the warmth of the inn’s bedroom, and drunk wine in the inn’s dining room, in front of the hearth—a fire burning constantly there—and then, returning to the bedroom, made love again, each time setting a new record since she had never given herself to anyone since Cooper had left. Still Jillie fretted, worrying her fingers. But Cooper would understand, she would tell herself—would encourage, she thought, and yet...
“I think I need to get back,” she said, on this early Saturday morning, feeling uneasy about something, suddenly, over breakfast, while the fire was warming them.
Henry looked at her, holding his coffee carefully as he studied her, and began, “But...” And she knew what he was going to say: that they had two more days of their quick get-a-way left...
“I know, Henry,” she said quickly, feeling kind of bad, but not that bad, “but I need to get back.” Saying it with the finality of reasoning that only a woman can summon up, that finality that comes from an instinct as old as human memory. And Henry, reluctant, but willing to abide her decision, nodded and said, “Okay. Then we go back. We’ll save the two days for another time, shall we?”
Jillie smiled at that and nodded.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
The Mailbox
Charley, the uncle with the big mustache, studied the mail—he had to bend into the street light to see—Maxie and Joey watching him closely. Then he looked over at Maxie and said,
“Joey told me your last name was Cooper.”
Maxie just nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“He said that you thought your parents were dead?” He waited.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Maxie. “That’s what they told me.”
“Who’s they?” the uncle continued, watching Maxie closely, his head cocked to one side.
“The men who took me. They said my parents were killed in an automobile accident.” Defensive, like he was covering up a lie. Maybe a lie that somebody else told, but he was guilty somehow—maybe because he was part of the lie. He felt bad about that.
Then, the uncle, noticing Maxie’s discomfort, continued. “Well, these letters here are addressed to Ms. Jillian Cooper. Is that your mother’s name?” And it bothered Maxie that the man with the black mustache was talking to him like he was guilty of something—like a lie—when he wasn’t. So Maxie didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at the ground like he had been caught doing something bad. And if the letters were addressed to Ms. Jillian Cooper, who was she? His mother? And if she was, who were the men who had taken him? The men who had lied to him? The men who had taken him to his new home with the Man? Who might also be a liar.
Maxie’s head began to spin. My mother? he thought. Alive? And if it is my mother, and she was really alive all this time, why didn’t she call? It was all too much for Maxie, the Boy who had lived with a man who acted like his father, but had lied about his mother. Maxie wondered if his father was alive too? And if so, why didn’t he come to get him?
Maxie stared into the darkness, feeling more alone now than ever. And confused. And frightened. And his stomach hurt now more than it had ever hurt, and his eyes began to water. But he fought against the tears, because he was fifteen years old, and he didn’t need to cry, not now, not when he found out that maybe, after all these years, his mother and father were still alive. So, he made a decision to be tough.
Where that came from he didn’t know—maybe from the Asp—so he turned to the uncle and said, “Yeah, that’s my mother’s name.” Then he started to cry and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Chapter Ninety
What to Do Next?
The uncle put his arms around Maxie, this man who was much taller than Maxie, the man who found the mail addressed to Jillian Cooper, who was probably his mother. “So what are we going to do?” he said.
Joey and Maxie and the uncle stood on the porch—the letters still in Charley’s hand—looking out at Main Street, Maxie trying not to think about what happened to him eight years ago. The snow had stopped falling. There was now about a half-foot on the ground, the white of it sparkling under the street lamps. It felt like Christmas, but not to the Boy, who was trying to figure out what the adults had done to him, to his life, for these past eight years. At least, he thought, maybe I’m not an orphan.
“Let’s go to my place,” said the uncle, who seemed like such a wise man to Maxie, like such a kind man, like a man who wouldn’t tell lies. So—now that he was older, and with Joe E. Lewis—he could get into the car with him. Safely. He hoped.
Joey and Maxie got into the uncle’s big black car, the one that looked something like the car the kidnappers had originally taken him in, and they drove in the cold of the night, without snowfall—but the highway was covered with it and snowplows were already trying to clear a path—until they came to a sign that read:
Columbus
City Limits
And Maxie knew he was in Columbus of O.H.I.O. . He looked at Joey, and Joey smiled at him like he knew what he was thinking; good old Joey Lewis, who was named after a famous star, Joe E. Lewis.
Maxie didn’t remember much about Columbus because the only time they ever went there was when his father had a meeting at a university, and his mom and he would go along. Maxie’s eyes were trying to close as they drove through the city which was mostly dark now, the only lights at 4:45 in the morning—Maxie read the time on the dashboard—were the lamps hanging over the streets and, of c
ourse, the stop lights. Most of them were all flashing yellow because it was early morning. Maxie didn’t remember being up this late—ever—as he fought to keep his eyes open.
Finally, they pulled into a kind of inner-city place, with red brick buildings, tall, lit up by gas lamps along the street. It was awfully pretty, Maxie thought, a lot of Christmas decorations hanging: wreaths on the lamp posts, and strings of lights—small white ones—over the intersections, and red and green Christmas bulbs in the store windows. He read the names on several store fronts: Schmidt’s, a bar/restaurant that he remembered being in with his parents; The Book Loft; and his favorite, Max and Erma’s—he remembered that one because it had his name on the sign. “Maybe someday the owner will sell it to us; it already has your name, Maxie,” his dad had told him once.
Finally, they pulled up in front of a tall brick building that looked like an apartment building and parked on the street. It had started snowing again as Maxie’s eyes were drooping—they had been for quite some time. The last thing he heard was Charley saying, “Well, we’re home.”
Chapter Ninety-One
The Chase
Saturday Afternoon, December 10
That sudden storm was developing—just like I said it might—and the wind and the rain were coming. The rain was coming as a wall of darkness leaning our way from the west. The wall was topped with clouds. Black. Menacing. It was moving quickly. I could feel it coming—in the coolness of the wind. Huck was trying to keep the Canyon steady against the push of the oncoming storm, the waves now rolling.
A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 23