Measure of Darkness (30 page)

“B
ang,” says the man in the closet. “You want to go that way? You shoot me, I shoot her?”

By
her
I'm supposing he means Naomi, only because I'm slightly farther away, cowering in plain sight.

“Put the gun on the floor and place your hands behind your head,” Jack says.

The man in the wool cap gives us another loony grin, as if delighted that Jack is playing along. “Spoken like a real lawman. But here's the thing, sunshine. I've got a gun and you've got a gun and I hate to say it, but mine is bigger than yours. You have, let me see, a nine-mil for the gentleman and a .38 for the lady. Nice firearms. Quality. But the gun in my hand is a Kahr PM45, nineteen ounces fully loaded, which means I can hold it all day long. And the nice thing about a large-caliber bullet, all it takes is one shot. I'm aiming at the lady's torso, but even if I wing her in the arm or leg she'll bleed out in less than a minute. So why don't we go in the other direction? Put your guns on the floor and place
your
hands behind your head.”

“Never going to happen.” Jack is adamant, and his eyes are subzero.

“Thought you might say that. Here's the real deal. I'm coming out, so you better back up or I'll shoot my way through you. And I will not hesitate.”

The man strides out of the closet. We all back up, keeping the same distance. Naomi's gun is starting to waver. I know from the shooting range that keeping a handgun level is a lot harder than it looks. Tie a two-pound weight to your wrist and see how long you can hold your arm out. Not long, even if you're bracing.

“Hey, this is great,” the man says, moving us backward. “Let's use the momentum. Keep rolling. Or die. Your choice. Personally I could care less. Always wanted to die in a shoot-out, and tonight is as good a time as any.”

Maybe you had to be there, but there's never any doubt about his personal interest in death. Which, believe me, is even more convincing if the man in question looks like he was turned on a lathe from hardened steel and smells like he's been eating raw hamburger left out in the sun. I know about the bad breath because as he slips forward, accelerating the pace, daring us all to die in an exchange of variously sized bullets, he reaches out his left hand, snake-strike quick, and grabs hold of my neck.

In the same motion he somehow slips behind me, all in that one sly movement, like a conjuror's trick. And his gun ends up jammed under my chin.

“Don't look so embarrassed,” he says to Jack. “I've done this before. More than once. And you know what? I'm not even going to ask you to lower your weapons. Take a shot if you think you can take me down without hitting my new pal here. No? Then keep moving. I do enjoy the company.”

My knees don't seem to be functioning, but that turns out not to be a problem, because the man wraps his arm
around my waist, lifting me effortlessly. With the business end of the snub-nose buried under my chin I don't even fantasize about struggling or fighting to get free.

He makes Jack and Naomi go down the stairs backward, which he apparently finds very amusing. Jack is really, really angry, looks like he's going to snap off his own teeth he's so pissed, and Naomi has an expression I've never seen on her face. Fear. She's trying to mask it, probably for my benefit, but there it is. She fears for my life.

The man with my life in his hands backs them all the way to the ground floor, to the rear fire exit. He swings me around like a rag doll and puts his back to the door.

Jack and Naomi are only a few yards away, still armed. Jack is still trying to find a shot that won't risk killing me, too, but he looks discouraged.

“You're good folks, I can tell that,” says the man who has the gun to my head, sounding oddly jovial. “You know why? Because you chose life.”

“What do you want?” Naomi says. “Why go to all the trouble of breaking into the residence?”

I can feel him laughing inside, which is nearly as terrifying as the gun under by chin. “It wasn't any trouble,” he says. “I thought New Mommy might be visiting and I wanted to give her my regards.”

“New Mommy?” Naomi asks, puzzled.

“The skinny bitch with the two-by-four. She's not here, obviously, but I'll find her. Bet on it.”

He pushes backward through the door, carrying me out into the night.

 

It's not like I think about death a lot. Not my own death. That stays buried away in the back of my mind, a dark little shape to be taken out and examined as rarely
as possible. We're all short-timers with specific but unknown-to-us expiration dates, we know that even as children, so what's the point of dwelling on the fact of our own mortality? Bummer, man. But when I do have occasion to contemplate the end of me, I figure I won't go easy. Not the type. I'll be one of those who rage against the oncoming light, fighting to stay behind.

Or so I thought. As it turned out in this particular circumstance, in the arms of death himself, I was strangely docile. A voice inside was saying, this is it, you've come to the last moment of your life, try to be calm because the last thing you want—your very last desire—is to leave without your dignity intact. Don't let fear turn you into something less than you are. Don't let your last moment be one of terror.

So when the steel god of death tosses me aside and slips away, into the shadows, I remain where discarded, as numb as if I'd been wrapped in cotton batting.

Jack finds me a block from the residence. I'm sitting on the curb hugging my knees to my chin without a thought in my head. Just being.

“Alice, I'm so sorry.”

A moment passes before I can speak. Several moments. “You did the right thing,” I finally manage to say. “I'm alive.”

D
aybreak finds Gatling in his home office in New Castle, setting up the operation at a discreet remove. Using third and fourth parties, none of whom have known connections to GSG, or to him personally. The operation is fraught with risk—they always are—but he finds himself responding to the challenge. In days of old a good cavalry officer rode to the sound of gunfire. Something of that remains, although in his particular case, given all of his powers and connections, the gunfire is likely to be in the form of a subpoena, rather than a hail of lead. As to the real thing, he's been there, thank you very much. He knows what it is to melt himself into a mountainside as enemy snipers rain fire, bullets fragmenting inches from his head, and, all things considered, he prefers the current situation.

Having determined that a charter jet will be touching down within the hour, and that a fuel truck will be standing by at precisely the right moment, Taylor Gatling, Jr., grants himself a five-minute juice break. The hand-squeezed OJ is chilled to his preferred temperature, waiting on the shelf in the fridge under the office bar. He's bending over to fetch it when the door opens. A
door he distinctly recalls locking. He freezes in position, the most vulnerable parts of his body crouching behind the thickness of the bar, and then relaxes and stands up when he sees who it is.

“You're kind of cute when you're bending over,” Kidder says.

“Don't you ever knock?”

Kidder holds up an electric lock-pick gun and pulls the trigger, making it spin. “Amazing little gizmos,” he says. “Only thing that stops 'em is a keyless dead bolt. The only thing more effective is a fifty-caliber bullet.”

“You're late,” Gatling says.

Kidder shrugs, and Gatling notes that he seems not the least concerned with any timetable. Idiot. He's still wearing the wool cap, which Gatling suspects has scabbed to the back of his head. His eyes, always weirdly blank somehow, have gone seriously strange. Sign of a concussed skull, perhaps. Not a concern, long term, because, frankly, the man's time is just about up. Gatling hasn't arrived at the precise scenario, there are a couple of interesting options, but this particular threat is getting his ticket punched in the next forty-eight hours. After an enhanced interrogation has revealed whatever pathetic backup plans the nutball's put in place. In the interest of containment, Gatling will have to take charge of the interrogation himself, but that's not a problem, he has the skill set. Been there, done that.

“You're sweating and you stink,” Gatling says.

“I love you, too.”

“Not that you appear to care, but your mess has been cleaned up. Even if the woman goes to the authorities with some wild tale there will be no proof, no evidence. Her mental history will make any investigation unlikely.”

“What are you saying?” Kidder says with a sly grin. “You finally offed the little brat?”

Gatling looks repulsed by the suggestion. “Of course not. We're not baby-killers. Not on purpose, anyhow. No, no, the flight has been arranged. He's going back to China, where he will be hidden in plain sight. There are thousands of families eager to adopt. He'll be given to some nice, hardworking peasant family in a remote province on the mainland.”

“Oh yeah? I heard half-breeds end up in state orphanages. Nobody wants 'em.”

Gatling shrugs, “Whatever happens, it will no longer be our responsibility.”

“Out of sight, out of mind, eh? I like the way your brain works, Cap. Always have. But you're dreaming if you think New Mommy is going away.”

“Who?”

“That chick you hired to nurse the brat.”

“I told you, with her mental history no one will believe her.”

“So that's why you picked her? On account of her medical record?”

“You know I did.” Gatling doesn't like where this is going. He shouldn't have to discuss tactics with a grunt.

“Just so you know—I wouldn't want to keep you out of the loop, Cap, no sir, that's not my style—I dropped by the Nantz house to check on New Mommy. Figured she might go there.”

For a long, stunning moment Gatling is at a loss for words. “You
what?
” he finally says.

“Aside from anything else, the bitch knows what I look like. I can't have positive IDs walking around in the world.”

That's not entirely true, nor his reason for invading the
Back Bay residence. It's more that he can't let a woman get the better of him; the thought is insufferable, and makes the wounded back of his skull pulse with anger. As a matter of fact, not to be shared with his boss, he didn't enter the Nantz residence in disguise and there are now at least three more people who have a pretty good idea what he looks like. He's thinking, once he extracts sufficient funds from Gatling, that a little face surgery may be in order. He's always wanted to look like George Clooney—why not?

“I don't know what to say,” Gatling says carefully, hiding his own spike of anger.

“Done and dusted, nobody home.”

“So they don't know you gained access?”

“Not a chance,” Kidder lies.

“Okay, I think we're done,” Gatling says, pausing to finish his juice.

“Done? Really?”

“Take a shower, Bob. Feel free to use the facilities. And for God's sake, peel off that filthy cap. It makes you look demented.”

Kidder appears to find the insults amusing, and makes no move to leave. He keeps hitting the trigger on the lock-pick gun. It makes a screechy little noise that has him smiling. “Since you're so calm and everything, I'm assuming you haven't heard the latest news.”

Gatling is thinking that he has a gun in his desk drawer, fully loaded of course—what's the use of a gun if it isn't loaded?—and he could take care of the problem right this very minute. Except for the mess. No, better to wait, find his moment. “What news?” he says, not really interested in anything Kidder has to say.

“Randall Shane is in the wind.”

“I knew that five minutes after it happened,” Gatling
says dismissively. “A physically and mentally damaged man wanders away from custody. So?”

“He's coming for the kid, Cap.”

“Not a problem. He won't know where to start.”

Kidder seems to be amused by his nonchalance. “You had him on the premises. You think he can't find his way back?”

Gatling shakes his head. “He's not a homing pigeon. Shane had no idea where he was being detained, believe me. And any connection he or Naomi Nantz have made to this organization is strictly theoretical. She came right here to my home and made demands, can you believe the nerve? But she was bluffing. She hasn't got anything tangible, just a suspicion, and we're going to keep it that way.”

“Are we? That's nice.”

“Fancy a trip to Sichuan?”

“Can't say I do.”

“Too bad. Because that's your final assignment. You'll handle the drop-off, and when you get back you and I are going to have a discussion about your severance package. It will be generous. You can retire and make crush videos, or whatever it is you do for fun.”

“That your idea of a kiss-off?” Kidder smiles, clicking his front teeth together.

“I think we've outgrown each other, Bob.”

“Crush videos? If I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to hurt my feelings.”

“I wasn't aware you had any.”

“Oh,” Kidder says. “That hurt.”

He's thinking that between here and China, accidents can happen. He intends to make sure the brat never has a chance to identify him. Gatling may not want a dead
child on his conscience, but Kidder doesn't suffer from that particular weakness. Murder can be fun, if you give it half a chance.

M
aybe there are people who can sleep soundly after having a gun put to their head. I'm not one of them, and if the previous sentence is ungrammatical, blame it on edgy insomnia.

So at four-thirty in the morning, having showered more than once to get the stink of creep off me, I'm wide-awake and brushing my teeth when I hear the
rat-tat-tat
of a certain distinctive knock upon my bedroom door.

“Ah,” says Naomi. “You're up. Good. Dress quickly and meet us in command.”

“Us” turns out to be Naomi and Jack. It's clear that our senior investigator hasn't been to bed at all and is eager to get on with whatever mission he's been assigned. His “tell” isn't subtle—he keeps glancing at his wristwatch.

Boss lady, attired in one of her full-length silk kimonos, looks similarly determined. “Less than fifteen minutes ago Randall Shane made contact with Jack, using a throwaway phone. We have to assume the call was picked up by one of the national security agencies, because all calls are run through their filters. So that's a given. Whether or not the raw data has been tagged or identified is unknown, but we have to assume that Mr.
Gatling and his associates have access to the data banks, or can tag certain calls and callers. No doubt we are on his list. Shane spoke in a code familiar to Jack, but the mere fact that he made contact indicates an assumption that we intend to provide assistance, so there isn't much time.”

“Time for what?” I ask.

“Providing assistance, of course. We need your help. Are you willing to risk the legal exposure?”

Without hesitation I say, “Yes. Count me in.”

Naomi nods, satisfied. “You'll accompany Jack to the rendezvous point and remain there, reporting to me as events unfold. I can then take whatever actions I deem necessary.”

“We're going to help Shane get Joey, right?”

“That's the plan. You are to remain with the vehicle or nearby, is that understood? Keep your cell off unless you have to use it. It's a virtual certainty they'll be attempting to trace our movements.”

“The FBI or Gatling's people?”

“Probably both.”

“You really think the FBI is assisting in a kidnapping?”

“No, absolutely not. But their security has been compromised. Anything they learn about this case is being passed on to GSG. Monica Bevins said as much, suggesting we're on our own, and we must take her at her word. Now go, and Godspeed.”

As we hurry down the hallway it's obvious Jack isn't really cool with having me along, but orders are orders.

“What's the problem?” I ask.

“Nothing personal. I'm just not sure it makes sense to expose you to felony charges if the thing goes sideways.”

“You're concerned for my well-being?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“That's sweet. So what kind of code did Shane use?”

“Not a code, exactly. Verbal shorthand. We used to use it on open frequencies, in case bad guys had a scanner. You'd be surprised how many do. The call was very brief and to the point. ‘Mind your p's and q's.'”

“That's it?”

“Emphasis on p's. That would be Pease International Tradeport. He'll be expecting us within the hour.”

On the way down to the garage Jack opens a gun safe, hands me a Smith & Wesson Airweight that's identical to the weapon Naomi was wielding for last night's festivities. Also a box of .38 ammo that feels heavier than the gun itself.

“Fine for me, but what about you?”

He snorts. “I'm already carrying, and that's for Shane. ‘Q' is code for a throw down. He was letting me know he needed a weapon.”

We get into his Lincoln Town Car and strap up. Jack's a pest about seat belts. Before he turns the key he gives me one last out. “By picking up that gun you're already in the act of aiding and abetting an escaped prisoner. It would be a whole lot safer to stay here and assist Naomi.”

“It wasn't safer last night.”

“Good point,” he concedes. He thumbs a button on the visor and the garage door lifts.

Standing there, blocking our view, is a big beefy guy in a Massachusetts State Trooper uniform.

“Ah, shit,” says Jack. “You've got the gun. Get it to Shane. No delay. No time to clear it with Naomi, understood? I'll make sure she knows what's going down. You just make sure that—”

Before he can finish the car door is yanked open and
the big trooper “assists” Jack from the vehicle. “Mr. Delancey? You'll have to come with me.”

“What's the charge?”

“The charge is, get in the cruiser and don't speak until spoken to.”

“Like that, huh?”

“Captain Tolliver wants a word.”

As he's being jammed into the cruiser Jack catches my eye and croaks out, “Don't hesitate, go!”

And then the cruiser screeches down the public alley, leading our lead investigator away.

 

Let me tell you, driving a Lincoln Town Car is like piloting a boat. Not that I've ever piloted a boat of any kind, but you get the idea. Big and wide and gliding along the highway like a battleship with an uncertain navigator at the wheel. There'd been such urgency in Jack's request—right away, no delay, don't hesitate—that I resisted the temptation to return to boss lady for a consultation. She'll know soon enough and time is of the essence. By the time the cruiser clears the alley I'm headed in the opposite direction, doubling back through a few side streets, and then slipping onto Storrow Drive with fingers crossed, hoping I haven't picked up a tail.

As to the precise rendezvous location, all I know is that Taylor Gatling's company is headquartered at the Pease International Tradeport. That's where Milton Bean had been threatened with torture so it makes sense that Shane would be checking out Pease in his hunt for Joey Keener. And if he's doing so in the company of the woman who had originally helped kidnap the boy, or at the very least helped care for him, then he—they, Shane and his accomplice—quite possibly have current information on the boy's whereabouts.

Fortunately for me, Jack's ride has a built-in GPS. A female-sounding navigator who rather snippily directs me to go north on Route 95, which I do manage, although not as efficiently as Miss Snippy would have liked. Using the cruise control—the boat comes with every option—I keep it to just a teensy bit over the maximum speed limit, so as not to attract attention from the highway patrol, and settle in for the fifty-minute journey.

All the while wondering if I'm doing the right thing. Not so much worried about legal repercussions—there's always hope that Dane can sort those out—but doing the right thing for Joey. Maybe we're wrong about the FBI being compromised and we should bring them in, use all that manpower and tactical advantage. Naomi could be wrong about that, we all could, but it's not my call. So I decide to leave the option to boss lady, who is no doubt already factoring in what happened to Jack, considering all the possibilities. Possibilities I probably can't even imagine, not being a genius with a brain that recalls every little thing.

It boils down to this. Jack Delancey thinks it's important that Shane be supplied with a weapon. And that, ultimately, is good enough for me.