Florida Firefight (3 page)

Hawker had dropped Hayes a simple note thanking him and telling him his son Jake had died trying to save the life of the girl.

He had heard nothing more. Until now.

As Hawker jogged down Halsted Court, planning to swing southwest on Archer and back home, he suddenly decided to cut through Peoria Green, a large park with woods and grass too often inhabited by drug addicts and muggers. He had seen three rough-looking guys in their late teens or early twenties enter the park, and his cop instincts told him to follow.

He was glad he did.

The three punks had seen something in the park Hawker hadn't: an older, prosperous-looking couple on a morning walk. They must have been in their late sixties, but they were holding hands like high school sweethearts.

The punks brushed passed them, knocking the woman down on the slippery grass. The old man sputtered and raised his fists as if to fight them. But then he seemed to remember he was closer to seventy than twenty-seven, and he went meekly to his wife's aid.

It was pathetic to watch.

One of the punks kicked him as he bent over, and the man fell on his face. Another harassed the woman, kicking her legs out every time she tried to get to her feet. The woman was shocked and in tears, and the kid was laughing. “What'sa matter, you old whore; you clumsy or something, bitch?”

Hawker got there just as they slid the old man's wallet from his pants. When the punks saw him coming, they stood shoulder to shoulder in a show of strength.

“What'cha think you doing, motherfucker? You best get your sorry ass out of here before we slap that fucking smile off your face.”

Still running, still smiling, Hawker charged the biggest one. It froze the three of them for an instant, and Hawker veered at the last moment and hit one of the other punks with a straight right that split his face and sent him unconscious to the ground.

He turned to the biggest of them. “I'm still smiling, asshole,” he hissed.

The two punks began to back away, holding their hands out. “Hey, man, we was just shitting around. Didn't mean no harm …”

Hawker grabbed the mouthy one by the shirt collar and slammed him into a tree. When the kid tried to fight back, Hawker buried his fist in his solar plexus.

His partner disappeared into the trees like a frightened dog.

“You like to kick old folks in the butt, hey, asshole?” Hawker whispered, nose to nose with him. “Well, let's just see how much you like it.”

“What'cha mean, mister—”

The old man had helped his wife to her feet, and the two stood in the light snow watching. They looked broken and embarrassed and defeated.

“Sir?” Hawker called. “Would you mind stepping over here for a second?”

The old man released his wife's hand and came reluctantly. Hawker smiled at him. “Sir, I have a feeling you could have taught these creeps a lesson or two a few years ago, and I'm just wondering if you wouldn't mind helping me out now.”

The self-esteem flushed back into the man's face, and his shoulders squared slightly. “If I can help … if you think I'm able—”

Hawker laughed. “Oh, I'm sure you're able. I recognize an ex-lineman when I see one. No matter how old. And you've got that look—a tackle?”

The man brightened. “Center! A passing center, back when a center had to know what he was doing. But that was forty … forty-five years ago.”

“Great. Just move over there to the walk where it's not so slippery.” As the old man strode away, Hawker tightened his grip on the punk. “Listen and listen good, asshole,” he said softly. “You're going to let that old fellow kick your butt around this park—”

“Like fuck I am—”

Hawker's hand slid from the shirt collar to the punk's throat. He began to squeeze. “Nod your head when you change your mind.”

The punk nodded immediately. “That's better,” said Hawker. “And one last thing: I've lived in this town most my life, and I know everybody there is to know. If I ever hear of those two folks being hurt by you or anybody else, I'm going to come after you. You and only you. And I'll hunt you down like a dog. Now walk out there and bend over.”

The old man's first kick was tentative, but he soon got the hang of it. Before long the punk was sent sliding on his face with every boot. The old man was grinning like a kid. “Mildred!” he called to his wife. “Why don't you come over here and give this rascal a swift one!”

His wife dismissed the offer with a wave. “No, Frankie, you go ahead and have your fun. But we have to be going soon, don't forget. The grandkids will be here for Thanksgiving.” The woman turned to Hawker then, and her smile was warm and filled with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for giving back to my husband what he treasures most—his dignity.”

Hawker nodded and winked at her.

“You're a police officer, aren't you,” she said after studying him for a moment. It was a statement, not a question. Somehow people always knew.

Hawker began to nod but caught himself. He shrugged. “No, ma'am, I'm not. I'm just a private citizen … like you.”

four

Hayes Hill was a sprawling estate on Lake Michigan located in Kenilworth, Chicago's wealthiest suburb. A black wrought-iron fence and an electronic security gate protected the grounds.

Hawker arrived at the appointed time, and the gate swung open as if it had eyes. He drove through in the vintage midnight-blue Stingray he had bought at police auction and then had tenderly restored by a mechanic friend of his.

It was late afternoon, and a gray wind blew off the lake. The sky was leaden, with no sign of the sun, and Hawker could see the Hayes house through a forest of bare trees.

It was a stone fortress, museum-size, built in the Prairie House style of Frank Lloyd Wright. Ivy-covered walls. Greenhouses with fogged windows. Marble fountains clogged with winter leaves. It looked like the whole estate had gone into mourning for summers past. Or for a dead boy.

As Hawker made the turn into the drive, the gate swung closed behind him.

After his run Hawker had become increasingly curious about the invitation from Jacob Montgomery Hayes. It was unlikely he would invite a stranger to Thanksgiving dinner out of loneliness. And the statement on the invitation—“It seems we will both be without family for the holiday”—indicated Hayes had done at least some superficial checking into Hawker's life.

So Hawker had done some checking of his own.

Hawker was no big spender—couldn't afford to be. Also he believed that the more things a man owns, the more he
is
owned. When he did buy, he bought carefully: clothes, books, car; and buying carefully usually meant buying the very best available. But Hawker's one big personal indulgence was a 128k RAM computer, complete with two disk drives, telephone modem and printer. He had reasoned it would come in handy for police work, and he was right; it had proved invaluable.

Timothy Hoffacker, a computer-whiz friend of his, had talked Hawker into buying it. Hawker had a natural dislike and distrust for modern “conveniences,” but Timothy was convincing. He had listed all the advantages a computer would give Hawker and noted all the time it would save. Hawker believed him because he knew Timothy was unsurpassed in his field; only two years before Hawker had had to arrest him on a computer-bank pirating scheme that was so brilliantly conceived that the company had decided to hire him rather than press charges.

Hawker bought a computer and, red-faced with triumph, Timothy had presented him with an outlaw collection of software that would allow Hawker to steal data from just about any computer on earth that was serviced by a telephone company.

So when Hawker decided to check out Jacob Montgomery Hayes, he did it from the comfort of his own small study. Booting his unit with one of Hoffacker's outlaw disks, he dialed a special number in City Hall, then fixed the phone in the telephone modem. Back in the late sixties, a Chicago PD unit called the Red Squad, a CIA-type organization, had put together in-depth files on just about every person of note in the city. Public outrage had rendered the Red Squad all but impotent, but the files remained.

Hawker had punched in the proper control commands, and soon his computer was probing the city's computers, seeking to unlock their entry codes through a program method Timothy called Random Ultraspeed Taps on Locked Entry Data.

The name was a mouthful, but it worked. And it had an appropriate acronym: RUSTLED.

His computer had beeped and flashed, scanning. When the proper path name was discovered, the life of Jacob Montgomery Hayes began to roll across his video screen in luminescent green letters. The Red Squad had done its research. The report was in excess of five thousand words, filled with dates, facts, rumors and gossip.

In Hawker's mind it boiled down to this: Hayes was a Texan, born dirt poor. He had gone to work in the oil fields after dropping out of high school. He had worked the rigs by day, and in his own little machine lab at night. Tinkering and inventing were passions. In 1946, at the age of twenty-two, he patented an internal flush-sleeve coupling device that became indispensable to deep oil well drilling. By the age of twenty-five he was a millionaire. He continued tinkering, but his interests expanded into business and investing. His fortune grew proportionately. His portfolio included operations in America, Canada, Europe and Central America. He lived the life rich bachelors are expected to live.

But in 1967, at the age of forty-three, Hayes suddenly dropped from sight. Apparently he traveled, studied—treating himself to the education he had missed as a youth. He began financing—and joining—research teams on biological and zoological expeditions. He studied Zazen in Japan. Then he dropped totally from sight, and there were rumors of him in deep seclusion at a monastery on Crystal Mountain in Nepal. And then, just as suddenly, he reappeared in Chicago, where his corporate headquarters were based. He resumed control of his dynasty as if nothing had ever happened. He seemed to care little for politics or society. He married a local woman who was known to be a fortune hunter. In 1970 a son was born to them, Jacob, Jr.—Jake. In 1974 his wife died of a cerebral aneurism. He was a member of the Fly Fishing Federation of America and owned some of the top field and retrieving trial dogs in the country.

And that was it.

Hawker had never spoken with the man or met him. Even so, he had an idea it was going to be a very interesting dinner.

five

The butler who let Hawker in looked like a character out of a 1940s English mystery movie. He was saber thin, with a face of marble. His sense of humor was as dry as the tuxedo he wore was expensive.

“James Hawker to see Mr. Hayes.”

“How nice.”

“He was expecting me at five.”

“What a wonderful invention, the Timex.”

From the foyer where they stood, Hawker could see a balconied front room and a massive sweeping staircase.

“If he's busy, I wouldn't mind just wandering around the grounds a bit. Looks like your gardener has a passion for exotics.”

“Our gardener is a drunk, and his passions are too loathsome to contemplate. If you will, sir, this way.”

Hawker followed the butler down a cavernous hallway. Their footsteps echoed. He stopped at a double set of french walnut doors and swung them wide.

“Mr. Hayes sends his compliments of the season and requests you make yourself comfortable here.”

The room was done in fine woods and leather. The ceiling was sixteen feet high, and the stone fireplace alone was as big as Hawker's study back in Bridgeport. Bookshelves were stacked clear to the ceiling, and there were glass-enclosed displays of mounted butterflies, spiders and strange-looking insects. At one end of the room, near the fireplace, was a desk with a fly-tying vise. Behind the desk was a huge gun case filled with fine side-by-sides and over-and-unders. On the wall were original oil paintings of braces of Brittany spaniels, yellow labs and a rough and solitary-looking Chesapeake. The only other painting in the room was of a young blond-haired boy: Jake. In the opposite corner of the room was an elevated area covered with Japanese matting. Against the wall was a low shrine on which sat a brass Buddha, a small brass bell and an incense holder. The center of the room was dominated by an ancient chunk of Americana: a huge, hand-hewn oak table. It had been restored and polished to glass.

Hawker decided to try the butler's sense of humor. “The dining room, right?”

The butler's lips curled as if to smile, but only for an instant. “Hardly, sir. This is where Mr. Hayes ties bits of animal hair to fishhooks and performs strange chanting rituals.”

“Ah—the living room.”

The butler fixed him with a look, as if studying him through bifocals. “It's the library, sir: a place where one's books are kept.”

“Hank, are you giving our guest a hard time?”

The butler winced visibly. The figure standing in the doorway was an average-size man in his early sixties. He was balding, wore wire-rimmed glasses and held a heavy briar pipe. He was dressed comfortably in gray slacks and a wine-red smoking jacket. He had a craggy face, as rough hewn as the oak table. But there seemed to be nothing rough about the man himself, as if he had traded his dirt-poor Texas past for a life that was both sophisticated and enlightened. He laughed and held an outstretched hand to Hawker, saying as he did, “Hank's a little cold around the edges, but he's really got a heart of gold—isn't that right, Hank?”

“Hendricks, if you please, sir. We much prefer
Hendricks
to”—he made a face as if he had just touched soiled laundry—“
Hank
.”

Jacob Montgomery Hayes hooted. “Hank, tell Gloria Mr. Hawker and I will be taking our Thanksgiving dinner here. Tell her to do it up right. Mr. Hawker spends so much time watching his weight and staying in shape during the rest of the year that I'd bet he's a lot like the rest of us: he looks forward to the holidays so he can finally let himself go at the table.”