Collateral Damage (11 page)

All the Longboat cops had been through the Emergency Medical Technician training and could fill in until the Fire Department paramedics arrived on the scene of an accident or something worse.

“Do you have an antiseptic here? Bandages?”

“In the bathroom. The cabinet under the sink.”

She came back bringing the first-aid kit with her. “Lie back on the sofa,” she ordered.

I did so and she spread the antiseptic cream on the cut and bandaged it professionally. She ran her hand over the scars on my stomach where the docs in an Army field hospital had pulled shrapnel out of my belly before sending me back to the States for more intensive treatment.

“This isn't your first scrape, is it?” There was a timbre to her voice, sadness maybe, or compassion.

“No,” I said. “That's a little reminder of my year abroad when I was nineteen.”

“Vietnam.”

“Yes.”

“You never talk about it.”

“No.”

“Do you ever want to?”

“Not really.”

“I'm a pretty good listener if you ever feel the need.”

“Thanks, J.D., but I put all that behind me a long time ago.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You're probably right.”

“Tell me about today. What happened?”

I told her, giving her the details. “I was going to kill the man who came after me.”

“Self-defense.”

“No. I mean I was going to kill him. After he was disarmed and at my mercy. Before the woman showed up.”

“But you didn't.”

“No.”

“What happened to stop you?”

“The rage went away.”

“Rage?”

“Sometimes when I'm in very stressful situations like today, I'm overcome with a rage that comes out of left field. I don't see it coming. It's just there. It turns me into somebody I'm not, or at least don't want to be. Then it goes away. It's like the better part of my brain takes over and pushes the rage back into the gutter where it belongs.”

“Does this happen often?”

“No. But sometimes I feel like the rage is there, hiding just beneath my skin, ready to break out if I let my guard down. I have to fight it off. I used to drink it away, but that only caused more trouble. Now I exercise like crazy. Get the endorphins flowing and the rage goes away.”

“Do you think the war caused it?”

“No. It was there before.”

I was uneasy talking about this and wanted to change the subject. “What else can I tell you about today's attack?” I asked.

“Can you give me a description of the man and woman?”

I stared at her for a moment. “They were Asian.”

My doorbell rang. I looked out the window to see Chief Bill Lester's unmarked parked in front of my house. “Door's open,” I called.

Bill came in, a worried look on his face. “You okay, Matt?”

“Yeah. A little shook up, but none the worse for wear.”

“Morning, Chief,” said J.D. “Want some coffee?”

“I could use a cup. Tell me what happened.”

I related the facts to him. Including the ethnicity of my attackers.

He frowned. “Does the fact that they were Asians mean anything to you?”

J.D. broke in and told him what we had learned about Jim Desmond's time in Laos, and that we thought there might be an Asian hit team that went after Jim.

Bill said, “You don't think they'd still be hanging around almost two months after the murder.”

“No,” I said, “but it seems a pretty big coincidence that for reasons I don't understand a couple of Asians tried to take me out.”

Bill was quiet for a moment, sipping his coffee. “I wonder why they didn't just shoot you. Why the knife?”

“I've been thinking about that,” I said. “There was nobody on the beach or in the parking lot, but you know those North Shore condos are right next to the boardwalk. It was very quiet out there and a gunshot would have drawn attention.”

“Not if they'd used a silencer.”

“True. I hadn't thought about that. Maybe they didn't have a silencer.

Or maybe the guy just likes knives.”

“What happened to the knife?” J.D. asked.

“I forgot about it in the rush to get home. It's on the front seat of my car.”

“I'll go get it,” J.D. said and got up and walked out the front door.

“You know,” the chief said, “those folks on
Dulcimer
were killed with a knife or knives. Big ones.”

“Was the M.E. able to come up with the kind of knife that was used?”

“Only in general terms. It may have been the same knife or it could have been two different ones. Whichever, they were big knives with straight edges. They could have been KA-BARS, like the ones issued to Marines.”

“That's what this guy came at me with.”

J.D. came in with the knife wrapped in a cloth. “Maybe there'll be prints on this.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “After I took it away from him I would have obliterated his prints with mine.”

“You said he was hurt,” Lester said.

“I'm pretty sure I broke his elbow. Probably ripped up all the ten-dons. He's going to need medical attention. Soon. The pain has got to be terrible.”

The chief's cell phone rang. He answered, grunted into it a couple of times, and hung up. “The car they were in was reported stolen yesterday from a Wal-Mart in Sarasota. They haven't found it yet.”

“They're in the wind,” I said. “If they were somehow tied to the
Dulcimer
killings, why would they be after me? Unless there's some connection with Jim's murder.”

“Even so,” said J.D., “I don't understand how they even knew about you being involved in the investigation.”

“It's a small island,” said the chief. “Word gets around pretty quickly. Maybe Matt tripped over some alarm wires when he was in Georgia.”

“Can I see the files on the
Dulcimer
murders?” I asked. “Don't see why not,” the chief said. “J.D. can bring them around later today.”

J.D. stood. “I've got to get this knife to the crime-scene investigators. I'll pick up the files and stop back by this afternoon.”

“Don't forget that Jock's coming in,” I said.

“Shit,” said the chief. “Every time Jock shows up, my island goes to hell.”

“We'll be careful, Bill.”

“Okay. Let's try to grab a beer while he's here. Do you need to see a doctor?”

“I don't think so. Nurse Duncan fixed me up fine.”

“Nurse Duncan?” asked J.D., raising an eyebrow.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I'll see you this afternoon.”

I met Logan at the Bridgetender Inn in Bradenton Beach for lunch. The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast. We sat in the bar overlooking the bay, a gray and colorless expanse of still water. The sailboats moored in the lagoon were buttoned up against the weather. I could hear the faint sound of generators humming in the distance, the boats keeping the air-conditioning flowing into the cabins. A large schooner was circling slowly out on the Intracoastal, waiting for the Cortez Bridge opening that was scheduled every twenty minutes.

“I had an interesting jog this morning,” I said.

“Yeah? More of those nude people on Beer Can Island?”

I laughed. “No. I think the police have pretty much convinced them that town ordinances don't allow nudity.”

“Too bad. Some of the women weren't bad to look at.”

“You're a pervert.”

“What's your point?”

I laughed again. Logan wasn't nearly as bad as he wanted people to believe. “Somebody tried to kill me on the North Shore boardwalk.”

He put down the soda he'd been sipping. “What?”

“Guy came at me with a knife.”

“You okay?”

“Little cut. J.D. put a bandage on it.”

“What happened?”

I gave him the whole story.

Logan sat back in his chair. “If that guy's elbow was as messed up as you say, he's got to have medical attention.”

“Bill Lester's got alerts out to all the area hospitals. If he shows up, they'll get him.”

“What do you think the connection is to what you're doing about Jim Desmond?”

“I don't know. I guess somebody doesn't want me knocking around in the investigation.”

“But why you? Why now? The cops have been looking into this thing for almost two months.”

“I don't know that either, unless maybe my trip to Georgia got some people concerned that we might be closing in.”

“Trip wires?”

“Maybe. I've been over my trip and I can't come up with anything unless it was my visit with the Otto Foundation.”

“That may be it. They have all kinds of ties with the Laotian government.”

“Yes. And the Cambodian and Vietnamese governments as well. The Otto Foundation works in all three countries.”

“When is Jock due in?”

“Late this afternoon. He's flying into Tampa and will drive down.”

“Maybe he can tell us something about Soupy and his gang.”

“I hope so.”

It started raining again, great sheets of water washing from the sky. I watched the wall of rain coming across the bay until it got to us and blotted out our view. Lightning flashes seared the dark sky, loud bursts of thunder following closely. Our daily thunderstorm had arrived a little earlier in the day than usual. This much rain would overwhelm the drainage system on the southern end of Anna Maria Island, and by the time we headed south for Longboat, great puddles would be standing on the road that ran beside Coquina Beach.

We finished our meal and the waitress came to offer us dessert or another drink. “Gotta wait out the storm,” said Logan.

“We do.”

“Scotch would help.”

“It would.”

“You want a beer?”

“I could handle that.”

And so we idled away the afternoon watching the rain, sipping our drinks, and enjoying each other's company. At some point J.D. called to say she had the
Dulcimer
file copied. I told her where we were and that since it was still raining we might be a while. She told me to call if we weren't capable of driving when the rain stopped. She'd come get us.

At four, Jock called. “I'm about to cross the Cortez Bridge. Are you at home?”

“No. We're at the Bridgetender. Come on by here.”

“Sounds as if you've been there a while.”

“Lunch ran a little long.”

He laughed. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

I saw him as he crossed Bay Drive, dodging the puddles of water that had accumulated on the old asphalt. He was wearing black; a black silk T-shirt, black slacks, socks, and loafers. He was six feet tall with the wiry body of the runner. His skin had the texture of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. The planes of his face were sharp, his head mostly bald except for the fringe of back hair. He walked with purpose, scanning the street and the outside deck of the Bridgetender, placing every piece of furniture and anybody who was wandering by, setting it in his mind in case he had to react, dodge the danger that he always expected. He was alert, as always, a habit born of many years of clandestine operations, of the need to react instantly to any perceived threat, to be just a little quicker than his adversaries in order to stay alive.

He'd parked in one of the parking places that fronted the little beach on the bay side of the road. I hadn't paid any attention to the nondescript Chevrolet he'd rented at the Tampa airport as it nosed into the space. I didn't see him get out of the car. To my mind, he was just there, crossing the road like an apparition that appeared without warning.

Jock Algren was many things. He worked for one of our government's most secretive agencies, so secret that it had no name. Jock reported directly to the agency's director, who reported only to the president of the United States. He'd spent his adult life, all the days since college, in the
service of our country. He was an assassin who killed our enemies when it had to be done. He was a secret agent who infiltrated dangerous cells of individuals bent on destroying America. He was ostensibly an oil company executive, using the cover of that job to move about the world without arousing suspicion. Most of all, he was my best friend since junior high school, more a brother than a friend. Somehow we were Karmically joined at the hip. We were each other's family.

I rose and embraced my old friend. He turned to Logan, hugged him, and said, “Looks like you guys have been at this a while.”

I looked at my watch. A little after four. “It's been raining.” I hadn't really had that much to drink. A couple of beers had carried me through the afternoon. Logan had worked the Dewar's with determination, getting a little drunker with each drink, enjoying a day with nothing to do but watch the rain and sip his Scotch.

Jock sat and ordered an O'Doul's, the nonalcoholic beer that he fancied. Other than the occasional glass of wine, he almost never drank alcohol. He once told me that it dulled his senses and a man in his line of work couldn't afford to lose that finely honed edge that kept him alive.

I was the only person in the world who knew that when he came back from an operation, when he had blood on his hands that no amount of soap could remove, when he was questioning his right to live, he would crawl into a bottle of bourbon and stay there for several days. I was usually with him, his keeper as it were, the chaperone who kept him out of harm's way while he cleansed his system with the spirits that came from the bottle. And when it was over, when the guilt and self-loathing had worked their way out of the pores of his skin on the backs of the molecules of alcohol, he would spend a few days in frantic exercise, running, working out in the gym, taking long steam baths, healing his body. Then he'd be fine, the latest bout of conscience finished, and we'd go back to our lives, I to the beach and Jock to the vague trenches that served as the front lines in our war against the terrorists who would obliterate our culture.