Fatal Harbor (23 page)

The house was quiet again.

What could they be doing in there? Playing cribbage? Working the controls on some sort of video game? Surfing the Web for snuff videos? Discussing tips and techniques on how to kill people?

I yawned a couple more times. It was getting cooler. I was running plans and options through my head, wondering how much longer I could stay out here. I had food and water for a few days, and reasonable sleeping accommodations, and enough firepower to hopefully get the job done when the time came, but what I was missing was vital: good intelligence.

What I did know was important enough, but I still didn’t know how many were in there, if they were walking around armed, and what the interior of the house looked like. I could burst in right now, filled with fury and the confidence that I was doing God’s work in settling justice, but that wouldn’t be worth anything if I ended up in a laundry room on the first floor, a bullet through my forehead.

I stretched out my legs.

The sun was starting to set. Lights came on inside the house.

The rear door opened up.

Someone stepped out.

Chesak?

I focused my binoculars. The man stepped out into the yard, stopped, stretched his arms like he was taking a break.

With the binoculars, I could easily make out his face.

It wasn’t Curt Chesak.

It was Heywood Knowlton, history professor at Boston University.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I
kept my view on him. He walked slowly and randomly, his head bent down like he was in serious thought mode. He had on a light-tan jacket but no hat, and I imagined his bald head was quite cold. His moustache-less beard seemed more scraggly than before.

He stepped closer. I quietly moved to the left. There were a couple of low evergreen trees between the two of us.

I didn’t hesitate.

I went over the stone wall, got into a crouch. I ran across the finely mowed rear yard, just as Knowlton had turned—head down, still apparently deep in thought—and I got him from the rear. Even though I’d been on the debate team in high school, I plowed into him like an angry NFL linebacker paying for two alimonies. I stayed on top of him as he fell, making sure I had a hand on the back of his neck, to push his face into the grass.

He let out an “oomph!” but that’s all I was going to allow. I dug the muzzle end of my Beretta into his right ear, and into his left I said, “Not a damn sound. Not a peep. You call for help, they’ll be coming out to help a corpse. Got it? Nod your head.”

He nodded his head.

“Put your arms out where I can see them,” I said.

The professor stretched out his arms.

“We’re going for a walk in the woods. Move with me. You say a word, you resist, you try to run away, trust me, Professor Knowlton, you’ll be a dead man.”

He got up, legs trembling, and he let me propel him back across the lawn, over the stone wall, and into the woods. I grabbed my little bag as we went past, and I was very pleased that he had carefully listened to every word I had said.

Almost restored my faith in higher education.

Near my campsite I tied his arms together at the elbows, an uncomfortable position and one that was almost impossible to wiggle out of. I sat him down against a pine trunk and got a small flashlight, and I stood across from him, stripped off my ghillie suit. It felt good to be free. I sat down on a small rock, flashlight and pistol in hand.

“Well, professor, didn’t philosopher John Dewey say the most effective way of learning was to have a great teacher sitting on the end of a log, with an eager student on the other?” I motioned with my Beretta. “Plenty of logs out there in the forest, but I think we’ll make do.”

He seemed to catch his breath, find his voice. “You . . . you . . . I know you. Shit. Yes. Cole. Right? The magazine writer who came into my office a few days ago.”

“A gold star for the teacher. Hey, gold stars. Was that another idea from John Dewey?”

“Dewey was overrated.”

“Maybe so, but he lived to be in his nineties and probably died in his own bed. If you want to do the same, start talking to me.”

“Go to hell. I don’t have anything to say to you.”

I went over, slapped him twice—hard—across his face. I stood over him. “Whatever ivory tower you live in, professor, is a long, long way from here. So let’s start with the basics. How many are in the house now?”

He coughed, cleared his throat. “Three.”

I slapped him again. “How many?”

“Three.”

Another hard slap that pushed him to the ground. “Jesus! Stop that, all right? There’s only three in the house.”

Breathing hard, I sat back on my rock. “Curt Chesak and who else?”

“Two minders.”

“Their names.”

“One is Corey. The other is Brad.”

“Which one is the blonde?”

“Corey. Jesus, Cole, what the hell is this all about?”

“I’m after Curt Chesak. Remember? He nearly killed a friend of mine.”

Knowlton spat out some saliva. “A friend? You’re doing this for a friend?”

“Yep.” I lifted my Beretta so he could take a good look at it in the dying light. “What are the three of them doing right now?”

“Cole . . . you don’t know who you’re messing with.”

“And neither do they. I don’t have much time. Answer my questions, fully and quickly, or I’m going to hurt your knees. It won’t kill you, but you’ll be in pain and walk with canes for the rest of your life.”

His breathing quickened. “A friend . . . not even a family member . . . a friend. . . .”

“You should try it sometime. Now. The rear door you came out of. Is it locked?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Christ, yes, I’m sure!”

“The three in the house. What are they doing at this minute?”

“Corey’s in the kitchen. Getting dinner ready. Brad’s in the living room next to the kitchen, playing Halo or some damn thing. There’s an office upstairs. Last I knew, Curt was there, checking e-mail or porn, I don’t know.”

We spent another minute or two, discussing the layout of the house, and then I stood up. Time was slipping away like ice melting in my fingers. “Here’s how it’s going to be. You stay put for at least the next half hour. Do anything else, and I’ll hurt you. Either now or later. After the half hour is gone, do what you want.”

“How the hell am I supposed to know when thirty minutes have passed?”

“You’re an educated man, figure it out,” I said. Then I looked down at him and said, “What happened to you? And why did your house get burned down?”

He shivered. “I had screwed up. After the demonstration at the power plant, I was supposed to drop out of sight, so the cops and you and anybody else couldn’t question me, couldn’t keep Curt’s name in the papers. But I didn’t want to leave campus . . . and they punished me. Now, I’m stuck with them until things cool down.”

“Then what? Go back to being a tenured revolutionary?”

“Going back to school, being a resource and advocate for true change.” His voice grew defiant. “And don’t bother asking me who Curt works for or who pays him! You won’t get that out of me!”

I holstered my Beretta. “News flash, professor. I don’t care.”

I was now at the stone wall, ghillie suit still off, equipment bag in hand. I quickly got to work. I was sure the three over there were expecting the not-so-good professor to return for dinner at any moment. I had on plain black sneakers, green fatigues, black wool watch cap on my head, light amber shooting glasses, light black leather gloves. I had adjusted my leather Bianchi holster so my 9mm was across my chest for easy access. On my left arm I had put four lengths of sticky gray duct tape. At my belt was another weapon, and an open net bag for a few other items.

I suppose I should have said a prayer or a word or something, but I had no time.

I went over the stone wall and started running to the house.

In a matter of seconds, I was at the rear door.

It opened up easily enough.

There was an entryway and pantry, and I went through there quickly. No time for sneaking or stealth. The men in the house were expecting someone coming back, a snotty professor full of himself and his thoughts.

Into a wide kitchen. Warm and the smell of beef being sautéed. Pots and pans hanging from ceiling beams. Open door to the left. Big island counter in the center. Man at the right, stirring something in a Calphalon pot over a huge gas stove. Not looking over. Pistol on his hip. Jeans, sweatshirt, short blond hair. He said, “Jesus effin’ Christ, Heywood, what took you so long?”

A matter of steps. He was big, he was smart, and he moved whip-fast when he realized that I wasn’t Knowlton.

But it was too late for him. When I got into the kitchen, my right hand went into the open net bag, came out with a black instrument the size of a large TV remote, an Acadiana stun gun, gotten the other day from Felix. I clicked it on and by the time Corey swung to the right and was reaching for his pistol, I shoved the stun gun into his ribs and pulled the trigger.

He grunted, arched his back, and fell to the tiled floor. On the ground, I nailed him again. Another spasm, and fortune favored me, because he rolled to his side. Back into my cloth bag, out with two plastic Flex-Cufs. I slipped one over his arms, drew it tight, did the same for his ankles. I tore off one of the duct tape strips, slapped it over his face. I looked to the left, through the opening. Noted windows, ornate door leading outside, assorted couches and chairs, and loud sounds of things being blown up.

“Hey, Corey!” a voice said. “You drop something in there?”

I grabbed his bound ankles, dragged him across the tile floor, made sure he was hidden behind the center island. I moved around and yelled out, “Yo! Brad! C’mere!”

On the other side of the island, I stood up, waited by the open door. Brad came through; he was wide and big, legs like tree trunks, wearing jeans and a tight red T-shirt. He moved faster than Corey when he realized something was wrong in the kitchen, and even without spotting me, he spun and flashed out with a long arm and heavy fist. He caught me on the side of the head, knocking me into the wall, but I managed to stun him on his arm. He swore and fell back, rubbing his arm, shaking it, and I pushed myself off the wall and went at him. He swung again and I ducked down, slipped and fell on my knees.

My knees hurt like hell.

I gasped from the pain.

But I slammed my right arm up, stun gun still held firmly, and caught him in his flat belly.

He cried out, sank to his knees. I got up, woozy and light-headed. I jolted him in his ribs, his hands and arms drawn up, and he collapsed. He tried to struggle as I Flex-Cuffed and gagged him, but in a couple of minutes he was on the floor, near his companion.

I went to the stove, turned the flames off. I was sweating and breathing hard, and my knees and head ached, but there was no turning back.

I was committed.

I put the stun gun away.

The 9mm Beretta was now in my hand.

I went hunting.

The living room was clear. Bookcases, bar, some old landscape paintings, fireplace, and large screen television, showing some imaginative alien landscape, frozen in motion, sound still blaring. On the other side of the room was a wide staircase, leading upstairs. I took a series of deep breaths, went to the staircase, and stayed to the left, moving as fast and as quietly as I could.

I went upstairs at a light trot, keeping to the left side of the stairs. My Beretta was held out in the approved two-handed combat stance. Top of the stairs.

I moved left, to the office that Knowlton had mentioned.

Wide wooden desk. Computer and monitor. More bookcases. Long draperies.

It was empty.

Damn.

Whirled around, sped down the hallway, past one open bedroom, bathroom, and—

To the right. Closed door. Sound of movement inside. I leaned over, twisted the doorknob, kicked the door open.

Curt Chesak, standing by a bed. Hair wet. Fresh out of a shower. Fully dressed, bulky black turtleneck sweater, khaki pants.

Pistol and waist holster on the bed in front of him.

“Hey,” I said.

He laughed. “The avenging angel has arrived. Creaky knees and all.”

“Knees are hanging in there. You know who I am, don’t you.”

“Christ, yes.”

“And you know why I’m here.”

“Oh, spare me. You don’t have the balls.”

“You killed a college student, nearly killed my best friend, and have raised all sorts of hate and discontent. That’s all I need.”

He shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? Born to be bad, I guess. You know, Lewis—”

“Shut up.”

It all happened so very, very fast. He was good. He leaped to the bed and I saw it all in my mind’s eye: Curt grabbing the pistol, rolling to the floor, moving up, weapon in hand, spraying all twelve rounds in my direction.

Gunfire broke out, loud and ear-shattering.

Curt looked very surprised.

I shot him once, twice, and then three times in the chest. He fell back against the near white plaster wall, eyes stunned.

Some, I suppose, would have felt a sense of triumph, or closing the circle, or getting the job done. But I didn’t have the luxury to wait around and figure everything out. I didn’t wait.

I reached down, picked up my three empty and warm cartridge casings, and got the hell out of there.

I was halfway down the stairs when something loud and hard hammered my right leg, and I tumbled down to the first floor.

It felt like my right leg had been torn off at the thigh, rotated, and pushed back against my hip. The pain made me gasp. I ended up in a tumble on the floor. I moaned long and loud. The smell of burnt gunpowder was strong. I crawled, turned, and sat myself up without screaming. A pretty damn good accomplishment.

Up on the top of the stairs, Curt Chesak looked down at me, eyes ablaze, weaving back and forth, a pistol in his hand.

He tore at the front of his black turtleneck, revealing a Kevlar vest wrapped about his torso.

“Son of a whore. . . .” he gasped. “You think I’ve gotten . . . this far . . . without . . . precautions. . . .”