Driven (3 page)

K
rogan drained the last few ounces from a stray fifth of Jack Daniel’s he’d found discarded in an empty bait bucket. He put
the cap back on the bottle and threw it overboard in the hope another boat would hit it. Two weeks had passed since he’d woken
up inside a Coney Island Dumpster, reeking of fermenting garbage and in so much pain he could hardly move. Now the pain was
gone and as usual he had only a spotty recollection of what had happened. He had heard the confirming news of the crash at
the aquarium and was quite proud of the results.

He continued to cruise outside the mouth of Hempstead Harbor, paying zero attention to the new construction on what had once
been called the Gold Coast, where famous turn-of-the-century money moguls’ estates were now being turned into up-scale waterfront
developments. He had no interest in local or even global growth; he despised the old estates, the new homes, the builders,
and whoever the new owners would be.

Instead he monitored his GPS, seeking to locate exactly where he had placed his hidden buoy and lobster trap. The technology
of the unit meant nothing to him; it was nothing more than a tool. In fact, he would rather have used a surface marker, but
then the traps could be pilfered as they had been when he used to work these waters with his father.

Krogan grimaced. He never thought about his father anymore. The man was long dead and gone. Krogan had never known his mother,
who’d left him and his father when he was too young to remember. Krogan’s father had spent his time either working the lobster
traps or drinking. By the time he died of liver disease, Krogan knew enough to get by in his inherited business, which was
all he cared to do.

Although his lobster boat was forty feet long with a huge beam and spacious work area that covered more than half the vessel,
Krogan didn’t look out of proportion in comparison. He was a big man—more than 280 pounds, six-five and muscular. His rock-hard
right arm bore a tattoo of a speeding horse-drawn chariot with a cloud of fire in its draft. The chariot was driven by a man
with a gargoyle’s head and was pulled by a horse with bright yellow eyes—a souvenir of another night he couldn’t remember.
The demonic display reflected colorfully in the bright sunlight.

He pulled back on the throttle with a large, meaty hand, quieting the deep rumble of the rugged diesel that powered the boat,
which he had renamed
Shadahd
—the password that, when spoken at the right time to the right person, unlocked doors he had not known to exist a few years
ago. With a steady fifteen mile-per-hour wind from the stern, the boat drifted over the submerged buoy marker in the choppy
summer waters of Long Island Sound. It was 11:50
A.M.
and this was his first pickup of the day, which had started for him only an hour ago. Not that he had a schedule to keep—the
lobsters didn’t care what time it was, so why should he?

He leaned over and saw the buoy below the water’s surface, right where he had planted it. He fished for the suspended line
with a long gaff, snagged it, and pulled it up, his muscular forearms flexing as the old, barnacle-encrusted Styrofoam marker
broke the cool surface. As he pulled the buoy over the side he noticed a sailboat heading in his direction. He recognized
it instantly—the same cursed sailboat had cut too close to his bow three days ago when he was dropping the traps. He snarled
at the boat. If it happened again, the puny moron trying to sail it would pay.

He picked up the line and wrapped it around the pulley winch. The clutch mechanism engaged and the winch began to pull the
line. The first trap lifted into the air, water cascading back into the waves below. He pulled the trap onto the boat’s ledge
table and felt no special gratitude for the lone lobster he found inside. Stepping back from the trap he examined the creature—a
three-pounder, flapping and snapping. He was about to band the creature’s lively claws when a stirring sensation swirled through
his head, as if a swarm of bees were using his brain for their hive. His gaze shifted from the lobster toward the sunlight
sparkling on the nearby wave tops. The dancing light quickly fell into a hypnotic rhythm with the slow rocking action of the
boat; he could no longer look away or even blink. The rolling of the waves appeared to slow. The sound of water lapping up
against the side of the boat faded into a low hiss as the natural, conscious world in which he lived once again faded into
a vision from the unknown.

In the vision Krogan saw a young woman—a waitress—scribbling orders on a pad as she stood at a table where four businessmen
were seated, one of them pointing at the open menu in his hand. The waitress was shapely, dressed in khaki shorts, a white
button-down shirt, and tan canvas boots with matching socks. She looked more like she was dressed for a safari than to wait
tables. Her brown hair was pulled back in a French braid, revealing a gold,
five-point star earring the size of a quarter. Krogan felt a desire to meet her—a hunger.

As he stared at the vision of the woman, Krogan heard a loud horn blast, then another. The vision began to break up. He blinked
as the air cleared and the sunlit water reappeared. Overpowering the low rumble of his boat came another blast. He shook his
head clear and turned in the direction of the intruder.

That same feeble sailboat had not sufficiently altered its course and was approaching rapidly. The man in the sailboat was
having a terrible time handling his craft. Krogan was familiar with this particular forty-one-foot Morgan, having seen it
many times in one of the slips behind the bulkhead in the harbor. An experienced sailor could have handled the boat by himself,
but this guy was nothing but a rookie. Krogan despised him for that. His repulsion mounted as the man desperately ran back
and forth trying to compensate for his inadequate skills. The fool had obviously miscalculated the wind and his angle of tack,
and though he would probably miss hitting the stern of Krogan’s boat, he would be dangerously close. Dangerous for the man,
that was…

Krogan could care less about an accident. In fact, he enjoyed the thought and considered making it a reality. His boat was
much stronger and heavier than the sailboat. He could motor out far enough for his powerful engine to get him to full speed
and then ram the other craft dead center. He’d cut that wind-sucker in half like an ax through a watermelon, and hopefully
the rookie with it.

The Morgan drew closer, entering Krogan’s space. He could see now that the man was not alone. A young woman in a bathing suit
designed for maximum sun absorption and minimum imagination stood up to see how close they were coming. She had the kind of
looks most men would desire, but Krogan was unimpressed; if she was entertained by such an idiot as this inept sailor, then
she deserved to share in whatever calamity befell him.

“Sorry,” the man yelled in a clumsy attempt at camaraderie as the massive sails of his boat blocked Krogan’s sun and they
passed within fifty feet of
Shadahd
’s stern. The sexy passenger smiled and mouthed the same feeble apology.

Krogan wished he could reach out, pull the fool overboard by the throat, and drown him. But no—he would bide his time. For
now, he would simply send his enemies a message. He stared them both in the eye, raised the three-pound lobster, and in a
single movement ripped it in half with his bare hands as if it were a prophetic voodoo doll reflecting their own destiny.
Without the least expression he crushed the tail in his hand, squeezing the raw meat into his mouth while the claws on the
other half of the animal continued to twitch and snap in phantom reaction.

The inept sailor’s eyes widened in surprise and his passenger looked away in apparent disgust. Krogan laughed loudly, with
meat still hanging out of his mouth, until the mortified couple passed from earshot. He made note of the sailboat’s name,
written in script on the stern:
Playdate.

“Enjoy it,” he said. “It’ll be your last.”

G
avin stood under a large shade tree on a small hill less than a hundred feet away and watched. He was alone. He clenched his
fists as the gravediggers tossed the first shovelful of dirt into the hole and he heard it land on Grampa’s coffin. He wondered
how many others associated with the crash had heard that same sound.
Thud… thud…

Gavin was no stranger to cemeteries and coffins and mounds of dirt being shoveled into holes. His father had died of pneumonia
when he was six, his mother of cancer when he was sixteen, and his fiancée of one day on a motorcycle ten years ago.

Earlier, while the casket had still straddled the hole, a lone priest had arrived to pay his respects. Gavin had briefly thanked
him for coming but aside from that had nothing to say to him. Finally, the priest had mumbled a short prayer and left. Gavin
had not prayed. He had done his praying while Grampa was still alive. Grampa didn’t need prayer anymore. Gavin had no doubt
Grampa was with God and heaven was a better place with Grampa there.

The two gravediggers had waited patiently a short distance away while Gavin spoke with the priest and said his good-byes to
Grampa. When Gavin finally stepped away from the gravesite, they had moved in and lowered the coffin into the cold, dark cavity.
From the lack of mourners, they must have thought Grampa was just another nobody, unloved and forgotten. Gavin wanted to tell
them they were wrong. He wanted to tell them Grampa was known and loved and would be remembered… and avenged.

The thought of Grampa’s death still had not set in, and from past experience, he knew it would take a while. Three days ago,
when he had first heard, awakened by the phone call at one in the morning, he had not believed it. There must be some mistake,
he’d thought. He had just been with the old man twelve hours earlier and the doctors’ and nurses’ smiling faces had assured
him Grampa was stable. He’d even been developing an appetite. The doctors, who had at first braced Gavin for the worst, had
upgraded his grandfather’s status, raising Gavin’s hopes from doubtful to questionable to probable. The outrage of the crime
had become almost tolerable when Grampa began winking at Gavin while being pampered by the young nurses.

But suddenly Grampa was dead. Assassinated by a blood clot. Dead without Gavin being there at his bedside.

All the rage tempered by Grampa’s progress had returned. Stronger. Grampa had not just died; he had been killed—intentionally
murdered. The blood clot could just as well have been the impact of the truck itself.

Gavin blinked. The workers were gone and the grave filled. An afternoon breeze cooled the sweat on his brow and leaves came
to rest on the fresh dirt mound. Except for a couple of squirrels chasing each other around the trunk of a big maple tree
and a few sparrows hopping on and off an old thin tombstone pecking at seeds, there wasn’t a sign of life amidst the shallow
rolling hills of this humble cemetery.

Suddenly, unable to contain his emotions, Gavin let out a sustained yell. How could God have allowed this to happen to Grampa
and those others? In his rage, Gavin almost kicked over the tombstone, but caught himself. No. He needed to leave this place
and focus his anger in the right direction. He needed to get to headquarters and check his messages. Maybe Rogers had called.
If not, Gavin needed to get in touch with Detective Chris Grella, who had
been on vacation for the last couple of weeks. Chris was Nassau County’s answer for Brooklyn’s Detective Rogers. Unless the
accident was related to a previous case that belonged to another detective, it automatically became Chris’s case and Chris
was an old friend Gavin had had the good fortune to be paired up with in his patrol-car days.

Chris would have info, and Gavin couldn’t wait to pick his brain.

O
ooooh, yeahhh! Punch it, baby! punch it!” the girl screamed, a beer in her right hand and a burning joint in her left.

Krogan held the Camaro Z28’s leather steering wheel lightly, as if he wasn’t really flying down Shore Road at 120 miles per
hour. He glanced at the car’s owner in the seat beside him. The girl with a gold star earring the size of a quarter rocked
back and forth to the loud, heavy-metal beat pounding through the cloudy, air-conditioned interior. The music reverberated
in Krogan’s flesh.

As always, the one from his vision had already started drinking by the time they’d met in the flesh. He’d found the waitress
already in her car, leaving the restaurant’s parking lot. The nametag on the casual uniform shirt she’d been wearing when
he first greeted her with the word
shadahd
had read “Lori,” but as usual he had known her from another time and by another name.

As drunk as he was, he still recalled vividly the last time he’d partied with this one. She’d looked completely different
then and even spoken a different language, but he knew for certain she was the same. He also recalled, just as vividly, knowing
her in other times and other places—many times, each with a different face but only one name: Naphal. Krogan knew the next
time they had a date she would be different again… but the same.

He nonchalantly crushed the brake pedal to the floor and eased the steering wheel fractionally to the right, sending the midnight-blue
sports car into a screeching, tire-smoking skid. The speedometer plummeted to zero and the car slid sideways to a halt perfectly
in line with the driveway entrance to the Hempstead Harbor Town Dock and Marina. When Krogan punched the gas pedal again,
the car momentarily vibrated in place until the spinning wheels finally caught on the hot blacktop, propelling them into the
parking lot and announcing their arrival with a loud squeal and reeking smoke.

Krogan reached behind his seat and found another cold can of cheap beer, which he immediately opened and guzzled. He opened
the window, tossed the empty can, belched loudly, and nailed the gas pedal again, driving to the rear of the parking lot and
stopping in front of the pier. He turned the ignition off but left the key in the auxiliary position so the music could continue
to blast.

“AC’s not working,” Naphal said, staring at the vents with narrowed, bloodshot eyes.

Krogan shut the fan off. Without the engine running the compressor, the air conditioner couldn’t create cold air and the car
was quickly getting hot and stuffy. He reopened his tinted window a couple of inches to let some of the smoke out, but not
enough for anyone to see him. He didn’t care about the lack of air in the car as much as he wanted to keep the front window
from hazing up. He needed a good view for the night’s grand finale.

“Better?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.

He popped open another frosty beer and poured it over her head and onto her shirt. “How ’bout now?” he growled.

Naphal looked down at her drenched T-shirt. The cold beer was raising goose bumps on her wet arms. She smiled. “Much better,”
she slurred, then took a long hit on the burning joint.

“Oooh! Now it’s cold,” she said, stretching her arms to the ceiling.

Unwilling to be distracted from his primary objective, Krogan glanced back through the windshield to assess the view. Half
the crimson sun had already sunk behind the trees that lined the hillside on the other side of the harbor. Along a fishing
pier that jutted out from the parking lot, a few fishermen were making the most of the early evening sunlight. There was no
sign of the boat.

He returned his attention to Naphal. She was rocking erratically to the high-powered music, out of step with the beat. Or
maybe he was. Whatever. They had been drinking, smoking pot, and driving wildly for the last hour or so. Normally he would
have treated himself to her, but tonight he wanted to keep a watchful eye on the bay. If the Morgan forty-one was on its usual
schedule, the real fun would be starting any minute.

He took the shrinking joint from Naphal and fixed it into a small lobster claw, took a drag, then passed it back to her.

“Cool,” she said, examining the claw with red eyes. She took another long hit, then passed it back.

Krogan sucked loudly on the last smoldering remains, then placed the claw into the ashtray, all the while looking through
the rapidly clouding window before him. Naphal coughed spasmodically, her lungs unable to hold the smoke down any longer.
Still coughing, she turned and reached behind the seat for another beer. As she rotated back around she paused to look at
a tattoo on Krogan’s left shoulder. It read, “LOVE HATE, HATE LOVE.”

“I like,” she said, then slowly leaned over and kissed the dark-green letters on his shoulder. “Mmmm, you’re tasty. Where
did you find this body?”

Krogan leaned back against the headrest and grabbed her hair, pulling her toward him, but then saw the silhouette of a large
boat with its sails down, motoring home across the horizon. He pulled off his sunglasses, squinted, then wiped at the fogged
windshield with his left hand. There it was. He reached for the ignition key, absently pushing the girl’s head away, and started
the engine.

“Hey!” Naphal said.

“
Shadahd,
” Krogan said in a deep, lusty voice. The sound of the word leaving his lips generated its own energy within him, just as
it always had and always would.

“
Shadahd!
” Naphal responded with a sudden enchantment, then pulled the seat belt across herself and buckled it.

Krogan also buckled his seat belt, then looked out the front window with a cold, focused stare. His timing would have to be
perfect. But of course it would be. Beside him, the girl lifted her beer and guzzled it down, then rocked aggressively to
the driving riff of a lead guitar.

The sailboat began to slow as it approached the entrance to the marina just beyond the fishing pier. As Krogan watched them,
a shadow moved briefly across his view. He looked up to see an ultralight plane flying overhead. He’d seen it before. Its
graceful design, colorful fabric wings, and curious flying ability were wasted on him, though; as far as he was concerned,
the man was a nuisance, tying up traffic on the boat ramp and attracting the attention of boaters that should be getting out
of his way. Perhaps someday soon he would deal with that idiot, too.

He returned his attention to the boat. It was time. He shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal. The rear wheels screamed
in search of traction, then grabbed. As they began to move Krogan
slipped his hand over and unbuckled the girl’s seat belt. The recoiling strap caught her under the arm.

“Hey!” she said. “What are you doing?” She tried to rebuckle, but the strap had locked and she would have to let it finish
recoiling before she could try again.

The car blazed across the parking lot toward the pier. Those who had been fishing were now turning their heads. Krogan laughed
as he saw their eyes widen. The Camaro’s undercarriage sparked as the car hit the pier’s entrance ramp. The fishermen dropped
their poles and scrambled to get over the railing they had been leaning on. With one exception, they all jumped into the water
a dozen feet below. A fat one, though, was having trouble climbing over the rail. Krogan veered slightly to give him a little
help. The man had managed to get his left leg over the rail. With a loud, sickening whack, the car hit his right leg as the
heavy fisherman lifted it, spinning him like a giant human Frisbee into the air, his leg unnaturally loose as he twirled.

The sailboat had just started passing by the dock about sixty-five feet out. The speeding car crashed through the railing
like a sledgehammer hurled through a window, exploding the old wooden barrier into splinters and continuing on virtually unhindered.

“
Shadahd!
” Krogan yelled fiercely as the car flew silently through the air. With the sun glaring directly into the windshield, he couldn’t
see his intended victims very well with his natural eyes, but he saw them with perfect clarity in his mind. Experience had
taught him to trust and enjoy the vision as it came. At first, he saw the moron sailor continuing to steer the doomed vessel
as if he hadn’t yet connected the inevitable. He had turned his head to see where the loud noise had come from and had not
immediately recognized the approaching flying mass as being a car, or even as being out of place. In quick succession his
blank expression gave way to surprise, shock, and finally terror. Krogan experienced a wave of delight
as he saw the fear grab hold of the man, crippling his ability to respond logically—further proof his prey was worthless.
Without good enough reflexes to escape, the man would now have only enough time to see his life flash rapidly before him.

Halfway to his target Krogan’s focus shifted to the man’s Asian-looking companion. She also had responded in frozen disbelief,
gripping a nearby handrail tightly. Krogan could hear her thoughts, taste her confusion.

In the final moment before impact, Krogan lapsed into that familiar experience, a dimension that momentarily filled his being
with euphoric satisfaction—a place where time slowed and consciousness soared. A dreamlike but acute awareness of previous
crashes flooded his mind. Crashes that made him feel the immortal warrior he was.

He glanced at Naphal. She had given up on the seat belt. Both her palms were pressed against the dashboard to keep her upright
in her seat as the front of the car tilted downward. Her face was relaxed and her stare trancelike. He knew she was experiencing
the same acute ultradimensional reality he was.

The front of the car had just cleared the side of the boat. The moron’s shocked, gasping face was suddenly clearly visible
as the edge of the hood caught him under the chin. In his near-timeless state, Krogan savored a rush of violent hilarity as
the man’s head appeared to sit on the front of the hood like an ornament before disappearing downward into the grill.

Cracks formed in the center of the steering wheel and then opened, giving birth to the airbag, unfolding like a time-lapsed
blooming flower before him. The silence fled with a rush of thunder. Naphal’s arms buckled into the dashboard as she left
her seat. The top of her head touched the sunlit windshield, creating bright striking lines of light in it before breaking
through a hole that became
larger as her shoulders passed through. With a final jarring, wrenching explosion of sound, the car slammed into the boat.

Silence returned as the car and boat rocked to and fro. The airbag deflated, having done its job. After a moment of stunned
reaction, Krogan wearily unbuckled his seat belt. It was once again time to leave.