Game of Death (41 page)

The old naval yard is an area of redevelopment on the eastern side of the Charlestown peninsula. It used to be all industrial, with ship repair shops and storage and smelters, all of them
falling into disrepair as the need for their services waned. In the 1990s a development company purchased most of the land, and vomited up luxury townhouses along the shoreline. To the extent that
urban homesteaders and young professionals have made an organized offensive to grab land in Charlestown, the spearhead of that offensive landed here. The parking lot is filled with BMWs and Land
Rovers and Audis. The kids from the projects refer to the lot as ‘the car store’, and auto insurance rates for high-end models in this area are higher than any other place in the
country.

The development company didn’t manage to get a hold of all of the property down by the waterfront. At the far end of the naval yard, several battle-scarred warehouses remain, like ancient
barflies looking down with moral disdain on the pretty, manicured developments that have invaded.

I drive through the yard and exit at the far end, go through two large lots and pull up to a windowless cinderblock structure surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. I head to the gate in the fence
and put in the combination that Cormack gave me over the phone. I open the gate, pull my car through and then get out to relock the gate.

The building is a chunk of concrete with a front door and a back door. There is nothing about it that would give any hint of its purpose – no signage, no identifiable heavy machinery in
the parking lot – all it has is the number 142 in nondescript block lettering over the front door. That’s the number Cormack gave me.

I walk up and knock on the door. I can hear metal slide on metal as a peephole is pulled open. No sound penetrates the steel, and after a moment the peephole is closed. The door is unlocked and
Cormack opens it. ‘Come on in,’ he says with a smile, as though he’s welcoming me to a garden party.

I step into the small building. It’s around 20,000 square feet of storage space, mostly empty. At the far end there are roughly thirty large cargo boxes stacked to the twenty-foot-high
ceiling. The rest of the place is open space with a concrete floor. There are several chairs strewn about. Four of them are pulled into a small circle in the center of the building, and three of
them are occupied by men in dark clothing.

‘Who are they?’ I ask.

‘They’re the boys. C’mon over and we can talk.’ He leads me over to the men, who watch us approach in silence. ‘Boys, this is the lad I was telling you about. Nick
Caldwell, this is Toby Mickrick.’

One of the men stands. He’s my height, with a full head of pure gray hair and a large mole on his neck. ‘Knew your father,’ he says with a nod. ‘Good man.’

‘This is Slim Putnam,’ Cormack says. Another one of the men stands. He’s short and stout, with a barrel chest and a bald head. I assume, based on his girth, that his nickname
is the product of some childhood cruelty that stuck. He merely nods at me.

‘And this, here, is Eddie Black.’ The third man looks as though he may lift weights professionally, and he is at least two inches taller than my six feet. He swings his chair over
toward me and invites me to sit, going over and pulling up a fifth chair. We all sit down.

‘Boys,’ Cormack starts, ‘I appreciate your helping me out with this.’

‘Like we had a fuckin’ choice?’ Slim mumbles.

Cormack looks sharply at him. ‘No man needs to be here. This is a debt of honor from me to this man’s father. If anyone feels their heart isn’t in this, walk out
now.’

Slim looks cowed. ‘Sorry, Cormack,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.’

‘Ignore him,’ Eddie Black says with a scowl. ‘His heart is in it, or his heart’ll be floating in the fuckin’ Charles.’

Slim looks down at the floor. Cormack stares at him for another few seconds before moving on. ‘I’ve given you all a little background, and you don’t need much more. Our target
goes by the name NetMaster.’

‘Fuckin’ poser,’ Toby Mickrick scoffs.

‘Maybe yes, maybe no,’ Cormack says. ‘I’ve reached out to our people in Rotterdam, and they say he had some juice over there. He was well known as a bit of a psycho and
was making a name for himself when his name was Dieter Schlosser.’

‘So why’d he give that up and come here?’ Toby asks.

‘It seems Dieter has a weakness.’

‘Drugs?’

Cormack shakes his head.

‘Women?’

He shakes his head again. ‘Young boys.’

‘Fuck!’ Toby says.

‘Motherfucker,’ Slim agrees.

‘He was dabbling in the sex trade, among other hobbies,’ Cormack says. ‘Moving lots of bodies, most of them young males. It seems one of them got away and made it to the
authorities. He told them a whole lot of sick tales about what Dieter liked to do with the young boys.’

‘And the cops chased him out of the country?’ Slim asks.

‘Not really. They played it smarter than that. They simply put the word out among their contacts. The Dutch are an open-minded people, but the majority of the bosses who control things on
the dark side of the street still frown on child rape. He was done after that. Changed his name and headed here.’

‘What do you want him for?’ Slim looks at me. ‘You know one of the boys he raped?’

I shake my head. ‘He and his boss killed a woman I knew.’

‘Sounds like a hell of a guy,’ Toby Mickrick says. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘I’ve got an address in Brighton for him. We’ll watch, and when we see our opportunity, we’ll grab him up. Just understand: we need him alive. Damaged is fine, as long as
he can still talk. We’ll take a car and the van. When I call it, we go. Understood?’

Everyone around the circle nods.

‘Good. With luck, we’ll be done with this by dinner.’

NetMaster’s apartment is in a weather-beaten shingled building just off Commonwealth in Brighton. Cormack is in a Caprice Classic parked a block up from the building, and
I can see a trail of cigarette smoke twisting from his window. I’m in a solid-bodied white utility van with tinted front windows with the three other men. It’s only seven o’clock
when we arrive, but the day is already heating up, and by eight the van is sweltering. The place reeks of sweat and coffee and anticipation. No one talks; the men I’m with are all business,
and I can see why Cormack chose them for this job. NetMaster generally gets to the office by nine o’clock, but the entire company is in turmoil, so there’s no telling what his schedule
will be like today.

He emerges from the apartment at eight-fifteen, looking tired and slightly disheveled. There’s a bandage over his nose from the shot I gave him the other day, and he has two black eyes. I
take some satisfaction in that. ‘That’s him,’ I say.

‘Big fucker,’ Slim comments.

‘Everyone looks big to you,’ Eddie Black growls. I wonder whether he was the one who gave Slim his nickname.

‘Too big to be buggering little boys,’ Toby Mickrick says quietly.

‘Amen to that,’ Eddie agrees.

‘What do we do now?’ I ask. ‘Do we take him?’

‘Not until the Captain gives us the go-ahead.’ Eddie looks out through the darkened windows in the rear door. ‘Too many civilians on the street,’ he says.

Just then the phone in his pocket chirps and Cormack’s voice comes over the walkie-talkie function. ‘Patience now, boys. Let’s follow him.’

I’m expecting NetMaster to climb into his car and head to the office, and I’m worried that we will be sitting in the parking lot all day waiting for him to come out so that we can
get another shot at him. He passes his car parked on the street, though, and heads over to a deli. He’s inside for a few minutes, and emerges with a sandwich and a carton of milk. He stands
on the corner for a moment, just looking around. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and the perspiration is starting to seep through his shirt.

He walks north slowly, away from both his apartment and his car, gets to the corner and heads east. ‘Where’s he going?’ Slim asks me.

‘I have no idea.’

The phone chirps again. ‘I’m going up two blocks to get ahead of him,’ Cormack says. ‘I’ll let you know where to go when he passes.’ Cormack’s car pulls
out and rounds the corner around which NetMaster disappeared. We sit in the wheeled sweatbox, choking down unbreathable air. It feels like hours before Cormack chirps in again. ‘He’s
staying on Elm,’ he says. ‘I’m parked two blocks up. Pull past me, and park another two blocks further on.’

Eddie Black is sitting in the driver’s seat and he starts the engine.

‘Crank the fuckin’ air conditioning,’ Slim says. Eddie blasts the blower and pulls out. We round the corner and head up the street. We can see the Caprice parked on the right
side of Elm Street, the cigarette smoke still wafting from the window. A half a block on from that we see the hulking figure moving his way up the sidewalk. We drive past him and park on the far
side of the next block, next to a small park with a circular fountain in the center. ‘He’s coming this way,’ Slim says. I look out the back windows and I can see that if he
continues his path, NetMaster will pass within a foot of the van – an easy grab. I look around, and I see several nannies and young mothers sitting on benches in the park, watching over
children as they play in the fountain to relieve themselves from the unbearable heat. ‘Still too many people,’ Slim comments.

NetMaster continues up the sidewalk until he’s a half block from the van. There he stops and takes a seat on a bench at the edge of the park. He unwraps his sandwich and puts it on the
bench beside him, opens his carton of milk. He stretches his feet out and takes a bite of the sandwich.

‘What the fuck is he doing?’ Eddie asks.

‘Eatin’ his fuckin’ breakfast,’ Slim replies.

The horrid reality hits me. ‘He’s watching the kids,’ I say quietly.

There is silence in the van as the other three men look at NetMaster, following his gaze across the park to the fountain, where a dozen children ranging in age from six to ten are frolicking in
the water, jumping and running and laughing. They are in bathing suits, and the water beads on their healthy, tanned skin.

‘Motherfucker!’ Toby grunts. There is real anger in his voice – the kind of personal anger that suggests the scene has hit a nerve with him.

‘Sick bastard,’ Slim agrees.

‘We should take him,’ Toby says.

‘It’s too crowded,’ Eddie says. ‘And the Captain hasn’t given the word.’

‘Motherfucker,’ Toby says again. I can see that every muscle in his body is tight.

Eddie’s phone chirps again. ‘Patience, boys,’ Cormack says. ‘We need to get him alone.’

NetMaster finishes his sandwich, crushes the wrapper into a ball and rolls it onto the ground. He takes a swig of his milk and goes back to his sightseeing. A moment later one of the older kids
– probably around ten – shouts something to his friends and steps out of the fountain. He puts on a shirt and his shoes, waves to the others and heads out of the park. He turns onto Elm
and starts walking toward the van. No adult accompanies him, which seems odd, but it’s a quiet residential neighborhood, and if he’s been playing with his friends it’s not
inconceivable that he’s been let out of his apartment without his mother.

I watch NetMaster’s head turn, tracking the boy out of the park. He looks around to see whether any of the nannies or other adults in the park are following the boy, and to see whether
anyone is taking notice of his own movements.

‘He’s going after the boy,’ Slim comments.

‘He wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘He’s sick, but he’s smarter than that. There’s too much attention on the people he works with, and it’s too big a
risk.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. If he’s really sick, then he may not be acting rationally,’ Slim says. ‘Stress makes people weak. That’s when they’re most likely to act on
impulse.’

‘I’ll fuckin’ kill him,’ Toby comments. ‘I don’t care if he’s actually prowlin’, or just lookin’. Run a fuckin’ skewer through his
heart.’

‘Still too many people here,’ Eddie says.

The boy is passing the van now, smiling in the carefree way that only a child can smile, full of pure joy. The giant man is twenty feet behind him, still watching the boy.

‘This is bad,’ Eddie comments, looking through his rearview mirror as NetMaster approaches the van.

‘I’m taking him,’ Toby says.

‘The fuck you are!’ Eddie says.

‘Fuck you!’

As though he can sense the tension in the van, Cormack beeps in again. ‘Not yet, boys.’

‘You heard him,’ Eddie says.

‘And I don’t give a fuck.’

NetMaster has passed the van now, and he’s only a few feet away from us. He’s still watching the boy, his lips curled into a twisted smile. He’s so close I can see him swallow
and lick his lips.

Toby opens the back door. He’s wearing a wool ski mask rolled up on the top of his head, and he pulls it down in a quick motion to cover his face. He steps out and heads after
NetMaster.

‘Get back here!’ Eddie hisses.

Toby continues toward NetMaster. ‘Hey!’ he barks.

Both NetMaster and the boy turn. NetMaster looks mortified that he’s been caught watching the boy, and it takes a moment for him to register the fact that the person who has caught him is
wearing a ski mask in eighty-five-degree weather in Boston. By the time he’s processed the absurdity, Toby is on him. He’s carrying a hand-held Taser, and he brings it up into the huge
man’s chest. NetMaster gives a gurgling shout and bends at the knees, but doesn’t go down. He brings his fist up, as though he’s going to throw a punch, but Toby hits him with the
Taser again and this time he collapses.

I hear shouting from the park, and I turn to see the adults there looking at us, screaming for the police. Cormack buzzes in again. ‘Go!’ he orders. ‘Take him!’

The three of us left in the van pull our own ski masks down. Slim and I leap from the rear of the van and hurry toward Toby. Eddie pulls the van up so that the rear doors are even with the
collapsed figure on the sidewalk. It takes all three of us to hoist the huge man and load him into the van, but we manage it in around three seconds. By then, several of the adults from the park
are headed in our direction. They’re moving at half-speed, though, their instincts to help fighting their instincts for self-preservation. We hop into the van with our cargo.