Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02 (31 page)

He stepped back to the window, checking the road, then scoping through the binoculars again. He seemed a little jumpy. I didn’t need him jumpy.

When he was finished looking outside, I said: “So how’d you do it?”

“You mean, the bomb in the van?”

“All of it,” I said.

I was already fairly certain of how he did it, but I just wanted to keep him talking while I figured out what to do next. I had to deal with that gun of his. And the bomb that was strapped to Cumbaa. Brilliant ideas were not presenting themselves.

“All the bombs—the one that blew up the maintenance shed, the one in the skybox, the one at the airport—they all worked the same way,” Monk said. “Very simple. I just used an SCR.”

“Silicone-controlled rectifier.”

“My, I’m impressed.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out two cell phones, looked at them, then put one back in his pocket. “This is the little baby that will light up your friend, Mr. Cumbaa. Got it set on speed dial. Just press ‘one,’ it dials the number, completes the circuit and . . .”

He pretended to thumb the number; Cumbaa’s eyes went wide. He grunted from behind the duct tape, squirmed in the chair.

Monk laughed at him, said: “What, you think I’m really going to be standing nearby when I punch your button? Unh-uh. I’ll be long gone, but it will be quite the show.”

He stuck the cell phone in his pocket.

I said, “So that’s what you did in the skybox? Just reached in your pocket and dialed the number while you were talking to Kilgore, the bomb-squad guy?”

“Yeah, that was a lot of fun. Emptying the whole stadium; the bomb squad rolling in there, like they had it dicked; the look on that bomb tech’s face when she saw the SCR engage. Then Darcy Whitehall, trying to act his cool collected self, all the while he was probably shitting his pants. And you, Zack, hurling yourself across the counter, knocking everything all to hell. Everyone just beside themselves when the bomb turned out to be nothing but a lot of smoke. Yeah, that was fun.”

“One thing I didn’t figure out—how did you get it in there?”

“Ali Whitehall.”

“She was in on it?”

Monk shook his head.

“No. I mean, I briefly considered bringing her in on it, but that was me letting my dick do the thinking. She was just a little side treat, nothing else,” said Monk. “You see all those shopping bags she had in the skybox? Before the game I just slipped it in one of those, looked like another box of shoes, and I offered to carry it in for her. Then when everyone was going around, glad-handing and being social, not paying any attention to me, I stuck it up under the chair. On the way down to the stands to get you, I called Scotty Connigan, told him it was in place, and then he made a call to Whitehall.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, just for a dud bomb.”

“All for you, Zack, all for you. I needed a way to hook you into coming down here to Jamaica. Make it seem like poor old Monk was in a jam and really needing an old buddy to help him out. Plus, it made it a little bit more plausible when the bomb went off in the van. Just another little nudge to convince Whitehall he needed to cough up the money.”

“And the bomb at the airport cinched it.”

“Sure did. And it gave me my exit strategy,” Monk said. “I left you at the terminal, walked to the van, and just kept walking. Had a car parked outside the gate. Got in it, started driving, and I was on Queen’s Highway heading to the late Dr. Ghogawala’s clinic when I dialed the number and it blew. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall when Connigan and Skingle first heard about that. I bet they were freaking out, wondering who could have done such a thing to me. Bet it really spooked them. They were probably beginning to believe it really was the NPU.”

I said, “Connigan snuck into your room, took all your files.”

“Wasn’t anything in them, but they didn’t know that. They thought they had to get rid of them in case anything in there pointed in their direction. But it was just a smoke screen, something to keep them guessing.”

“Like the daybook you left lying on your dresser.”

Monk cocked his head, said: “So you figured that out, huh?”

I pointed at the pair of shorts I was wearing and said: “Had to borrow some clothes out of your closet.”

I reached for my pants pocket. Monk raised the pistol.

“Easy now,” he said.

“It’s just a piece of paper.”

I pulled out the receipt from Darwin’s Stationery Store. “I didn’t find that until this morning. That’s when I realized that everything you’d written in the daybook was just a setup.”

“Yeah, well, it’s like this, Zack. I had to throw a little bait out there, just in case you decided to stick around. So I wrote down the address of that old lady up in Martha Brae because she didn’t really know anything. It was just a false trail, something to waste your time.”

“She knew someone had been sneaking around her place,” I said.

“What good did it do her? When the time was right, I made the call to the JCP, told them they needed to check out what was hidden under that old woman’s house. Now she and her daughter will be taking the blame for everything that has gone down.”

I said, “And you stuck in that legal ad about Whitehall’s property off Old Dutch Road, along with the address of Equinox Investments, just so I would start sticking my nose into Freddie Arzghanian’s business?”

Monk grinned.

“Pretty slick of me, wasn’t it? I thought if you sniffed around Freddie’s business long enough he would get rid of you himself and I wouldn’t have to do it,” said Monk. “It was the old misdirection play. Get everyone moving the wrong way while you slip off to the other side. So you caught on. You get the gold star, Zack, but what the hell good did it do you? If you had it all figured out, how come you drove up here and got yourself in this mess?”

I let it ride. “When did you decide to double-cross Skingle and Connigan?”

“Oh, I knew from the beginning that it was going to have to come down to that. My share wasn’t going to be big enough to disappear on; they were cutting me short. Plus, I knew they had a little stash hidden up here from their shakedowns at those other resorts.”

Monk stepped behind Cumbaa, to the rear of the parlor. He pushed aside a chest of drawers then lifted the edge of a threadbare rug to reveal a hatch door in the wood floor. He kneeled down and pried it open.

I could see a steel vault sitting inside the hidey-hole. The original click-wheel lock was gone. In its place was a heavy-duty padlock.

“The way Skingle and Connigan were talking, I’m guessing there’s nearly two million inside. Haven’t had a chance to count it yet. Still need to bust off the lock,” he said. “But before I do that, why don’t we step outside, Zack. I’m dying to take a look at what you brought me.”

Monk waved me out the door with the pistol and followed me to the Mercedes. As we walked, I tried to gauge how far behind me he was by the sound of his feet crunching rocks, tried to visualize how I could spin and hit him. I’d have to hit the gun first, knock it away. What hand had it been in? His right. Was it still there, or had he switched hands? That would determine which way I had to spin.

But he was keeping a healthy space between us. If I spun around I’d hit air. Then I’d have to lunge. And he would shoot me.

I said, “Money’s in the trunk.”

“Pop it,” he said.

He followed me to the driver’s door. I opened it, reached in, and pulled the trunk release. Then he followed me to the trunk.

“Unzip the bags,” he said.

As I did, Monk stepped in closer, and I felt his pistol against my ribs. He picked up a packet of bills, tossed it in his hand.

“Working a tight schedule here, so I’m gonna trust the count,” he said. “I mean, what’s a few thousand among friends?”

I felt the pistol move from my ribs; heard Monk step back.

Monk said, “OK, turn around, face me.”

So this was it. Make your move, or make your grave.

I whipped around, slicing my left arm ahead of me. But Monk caught it with his free hand and held it while he arched back and brought a foot down on the worst possible place he could plant it—my right knee.

I heard the cartilage tearing, felt the pain in every nerve ending. I went down in agony, grabbing my leg. Nothing could make the hurt go away.

Monk looked down at me.

“It was the right knee, wasn’t it, Zack? The one you blew out against Tennessee? Damn shame,” he said. “Guess you won’t be dressing out again.”

And then, from inside the house, came an insistent, high-pitched buzzing sound—on-off, on-off—like you hear on a home burglar alarm when you punch in the wrong code.

Monk looked down the hill, toward the road.

“Godammit,” he said.

He grabbed one of the cell phones from his pocket, punched at it.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he said. “Do it, do it . . .”

I lifted myself off the ground just enough to see the white Range Rover as it rolled onto the wooden bridge. And then came the explosion. The bridge split apart, timbers flying in all directions. The Range Rover flipped twice, then landed upside down at the bottom of the gully, wedged above the stream.

Monk watched, transfixed by his own handiwork.

“Cool,” he said.

I grabbed the bumper of the Mercedes and pulled myself up. Tried to put weight on my right leg, but my knee wouldn’t take it. I braced myself against the car.

Monk opened a back door. He grabbed a duffel out of the trunk and tossed it onto the backseat. Then he grabbed the other duffel and tossed it in there, too.

“Now don’t go running off anywhere,” he said. He hurried into the house.

I considered my options. The stand of cotton trees and mahogany began about fifty yards away, down the hill. I could make like a log and roll there. But then what? Crawl on my belly like a snake until Monk caught up with me? I didn’t want to bow out that way. I’d take what he was serving, spit it back at him if I could.

Cumbaa came out of the house, legs free but with his arms taped together behind him and tape still over his mouth. He walked slowly, testing each footfall, as if he didn’t want to jiggle anything in the BCV. Monk nudged him forward with the pistol. He was carrying a roll of duct tape in the other hand.

When they reached the rear of the car, Monk said: “OK, the two of you, stand back-to-back.”

Monk turned Cumbaa so that his back was facing me. I didn’t move. Monk stuck the pistol to Cumbaa’s head, said: “Kill you both now or kill you both later. Really doesn’t make a whole lot of difference to me.”

Cumbaa gagged, struggling for air.

I said, “Just let him breathe, OK?”

Monk reached out, ripped off the tape over Cumbaa’s mouth, and Cumbaa let out a shriek, pieces of skin torn from his lips, which began to bleed. Cumbaa gasped and spewed.

I said, “You alright?”

Cumbaa turned his head and muttered: “Dumb fucking question.”

Monk pointed the pistol at me.

“Now stand back-to-back and let me do this,” he said.

I pulled myself behind Cumbaa and stood, as best I could, with a hand gripping the edge of the open trunk. And Monk began with the tape. I was at least a head taller than Cumbaa, so the first few wraps went around his neck and my shoulders. Then Monk worked his way down, binding our arms, our waists, our thighs.

He finished and said, “OK, into the trunk we go.”

He gave us a shove and toppled us over. My forehead cracked against the side of the trunk, gashing me somewhere above my right eye. We thudded together onto the floor of the trunk, my face jammed against the back panel, Cumbaa facing out. I heard him groan as he went down.

Then Monk was picking up our feet, angling and wedging us in. He had left plenty of play in our lower legs, and now he twisted and turned us, folding us up inside. My knee broke through to a new level of pain, and I buried my mouth against the rough wool carpet of the back panel, muffling the anguish, not about to let Monk hear just how much it hurt.

“Don’t you boys worry. That’s a sturdy package I built into the diving vest. It won’t go off until I want it to go off,” Monk said. “Just so you know the plan, as soon as I finish up inside the house, we’re going to take a nice leisurely drive to the freight docks at Kingston Harbor. I’ll get on the ship, you’ll stay right
here, in the trunk, two bugs in a rug. Then when I get a half mile or so offshore I’ll give you a ringy-dingy. How’s that sound?”

Cumbaa said, “Go fuck yourself.”

“Aw, don’t be bitter,” said Monk. “It’ll be over real soon.”

And he slammed shut the trunk.

Until the moment the trunk lid went down I’d never been bothered by claustrophobia. But now the panic set in. I fought it off, squeezed my eyes shut, told myself it was just like sleeping, and then I’d open my eyes and I could not see a thing and my nose was jammed against the back panel and I was tasting blood from the gash in my forehead. Cumbaa all the while bouncing around, wiggling his legs, making it even more uncomfortable.

I said, “Just hold still, dammit.”

“I’m trying to find it,” he said.

“Find what?”

“The inside trunk lever. All the new models they have them. What’s this thing, a year old?”

“Maybe that.”

“So you’re the one who’s been driving it. Where’s it at?”

“Beats hell out of me. I never looked for it.”

Cumbaa kicked and squirmed some more, said: “I think it could be in that corner down there, by your feet. See if you can’t feel something might be it.”

I probed with my good leg, then said: “Nah, nothing.”

“Probably it’s in this other corner, up by my head, and what am I going to do, grab it with my fucking teeth?”

He lay still. I did, too.

It was stifling. The tape made it worse. A five-hour drive to Kingston. Probably die from the heat before we got there.

I said, “How did he get you?”

“The easy way,” Cumbaa said. “Knocked on the door of my room. I opened it. That was fucking that.”

“Guess he was just sitting back, watching all of us.”

“Easy to be invisible when everyone thinks you’re dead.”