Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) (25 page)

They spent half an hour in the tent, turning up nothing that suggested the current location of Chee or the rest.

“Okay, we’re done,” Frank said. “This is a waste.”

“You were expecting a forwarding address?” Magnuson said.

“A guy can dream.”

“Chee’s like those game fish you have down here, gray ghosts.”

“Bonefish,” Sheffield said.

“Yes, like those fish, you get one shot. But if you spook them, they’re gone and you won’t see them again for a long damn time.”

To Sheffield it looked as if the group had made an orderly exit. No sign of panic, nothing silly left behind. They’d had enough time to gather their clothes, pack their valuables, probably enough time to wipe the place down. Though there’d be DNA. Sweat, hair, flakes of skin. There was always DNA. Maybe it would tell them something they didn’t know, but he doubted it.

Nicole made one last circuit of the room, stopped beside the ice chest, and reached out to shut its lid, but Frank swung around and knocked her hand away.

Nicole jerked from him, grabbing her wrist. “Jesus, Frank!”

He stepped to the side of the ice chest and squatted down, took out his flashlight, and shone it in the narrow gap between the chest and the tent. “Aw, shit. Here we go.”

Magnuson and Nicole stood at his shoulder and leaned in.

“Holy mother of Christ.”

“Is that what I think it is?” Sheffield said.

“The right color, yes,” Magnuson said. “I’d say a quarter of a pound. Roughly the amount that took out that retaining wall in the video.”

Sitting on the bare ground, a sealed plastic container was filled with what looked like lime Jell-O speckled with BBs. A rack of nine-volt batteries were attached to the lid, red and black wires running from the battery pack into the container, and a white wire was strung tight between the triggering device and the lid of the ice chest.

“The detonator,” Frank said. “It’s that simple?”

“It’s a trip switch. Those insulated wires are attached to a high-resistance bridge wire. It acts like a match head. The pyrophoric material is almost certainly a mixture of azide, lead styphnate, and aluminum. Hit the switch, the bridge wire heats, ignites the pyrophoric material, which then sets off the explosive. One of the virtues of HpNC. Once the compounds are assembled properly, it’s very easy to rig the trigger.”

“Jesus,” Nicole said. “How’d you know, Frank?”

“It’s why they left it open,” Magnuson said. “They wanted to take out as many of us as they could.”

Nicole was staring at the ice chest, rubbing the spot on her wrist where Frank had smacked her.

“So much for this being a bunch of pacifists,” Magnuson said.

“As long as we’re writing the history of this,” Nicole said, “just for the record, okay, I’m here as an observer. I had no input on the plan or the execution of the plan. Are we in agreement on that?”

Frank turned to her, held her eyes for a moment, seeing only a cold light, her mouth hard and impersonal, a woman he barely recognized. He felt a lightness in his body as if his personal share of gravity had been suspended for a half second. Then he nodded to this woman, Nicole McIvey, that, yes, she was off the hook. Completely off the hook.

“The lady is
muy
ambitious,” Marta had said.
“Muy.”

Outside, Frank instructed the men to retreat from their current position. Assemble near the obstacle course and stay put. When Dinkins asked what was going on, Frank told them straight out. A booby trap in the tent. Same kind as destroyed the retaining wall in the video. Stay at a safe distance while Frank and Magnuson made one more quick pass around the premises.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the bomb guys?” Dinkins said.

“Yeah, probably should,” said Sheffield, and headed off.

They left Nicole behind and walked to the cove, picking their way carefully, seeing nothing unusual. At the small beach, in the rising light, the sky was overcast and the water in the cove was the color of drying cement. Fallen branches littered the beach, and the wind was still rattling through the tattered leaves of the mangroves, bringing with it a whiff of ozone, the last traces of the storm.

In a wooden storage rack seven black kayaks were lined up neatly. By the water’s edge, half a dozen depressions in the sand might have been footprints, but the rain had eroded them to little more than dents.

Magnuson said the obvious. The ELF group had escaped in powerboats. Sheffield confirmed that he’d seen a white fishing skiff in the flyover photos his agent had shot the day before. Maybe later on they could identify that boat—clean up the photo, see if they could read the registration ID on the hull.

Magnuson was quiet. He kept rubbing at his thin lips, grinding his palm back and forth across his mouth as if trying to wipe away a sour taste. “He’s getting away. Right now.”

“They knew we were coming.” The quiver inside Frank was gone. Something else was missing, too, something he couldn’t name. In its place a familiar hollow was taking shape.

He’d had hopes for Nicole. Even pictured a future. Not long term, not growing old together or any of that dizzy horseshit. But a month at least, two months, three. Maybe make it to Christmas.

Magnuson rubbed his lips some more.

“They were here Friday late afternoon when my guy did the flyover,” Frank said. “Could be a coincidence they abandoned ship the day we raid.”

“It’s no coincidence.”

“Which means we have a leak. In your group or mine.”

Magnuson lowered his hand and gave Sheffield a solemn look. “It appears we do.”

THIRTY

“DO YOU HAVE A HANDGUN,
Thorn? Or any other weapons?”

It was shortly before sunrise, Monday morning, the darkness easing; a reddish glow had appeared in the east as if a single bloodshot eye were peeking above the horizon. Thorn was standing on his own dock again, along with Flynn, Cameron, Leslie, and the Chee brothers. Should’ve felt good, being home, but he was a long way south of good.

Hours earlier, during their long journey across Card Sound, the squall line had passed by, thrashing the bay into a heavy, dangerous sea, but now there were only the ragged remains, occasional bursts of rain and heavy gusts that creaked the big limbs, ripped away leaves. Then just as abruptly as they came, the winds died and there was stillness.

Thorn’s skiff was back in its berth, towed from Prince Key behind Leslie’s Whipray. The big wooden box they’d constructed on Friday was crammed onto the deck of Thorn’s boat, and inside one of its two compartments the monster python was coiled, the same one Thorn had battled. Two deep gashes, one near its head, the other halfway down its length.

The trip from Prince Key to Key Largo should’ve taken less than an hour but required most of the night. With a boat in tow through such rough seas they’d been forced to slog along just above idle speed. Then there was all the ducking into protected coves and creeks to recover from the pounding.

Pauly moved into Thorn’s line of sight, reached out, and placed a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. An almost-smile on his lips. “Pay attention. The lady asked you a question. Do you have weapons?”

His .357 was in a jewelry box Dr. Bill had fashioned out of native lignum vitae, stashed on a shelf at the back of the guest-room closet. This bunch might miss it if they searched, but after Thorn took a quick look at Flynn’s grim set of jaw, the glaze of anxiety in his eyes as he stared at Thorn, the decision was made.

“I’ll show you,” Thorn said.

Pauly stepped away.

“I don’t like this place,” Wally said. “Where the fuck are we?”

“This is Thorn’s house,” Prince said. “Three acres.”

“Five.”

“And your closest neighbor?” Prince pointed south, then north.

“North is a nature preserve,” Thorn said. “And south is the Morrison place. They go away summers. Won’t be back until November.”

“And he has no friends,” Cameron said, eyes on Thorn.

Prince was back to his pompous self. Limping and bruised, but no longer sulking about the beating he’d taken from Pauly. Probably chalked that up to being blindsided. Mirror-lovers such as Prince were so used to being the fairest of them all, not much could shake their arrogance.

“Thorn has friends,” Leslie said. “Where does Sugarman think you’ve been for the last few days?”

“I didn’t tell him anything before I left.”

“He stops in, right? On a regular basis.”

“Off and on. He’s a busy man.”

“Everyone take note,” Leslie said. “Sugarman is a tall African-American. He’s a private detective, a former deputy sheriff. So if you encounter him, come to me and let me know he’s here. Don’t try to take him on alone.”

“I can handle Sugar,” Thorn said.

“No,” Leslie said. “If he drops by, don’t go near him. Is that clear?”

Thorn eyed her for a moment, then nodded.

“This is fucked,” Wally said. “It’s not safe here. Pauly, we should split. Deep-six these losers and move on. Find another project.”

Pauly looked off at the water and didn’t reply. Considering it.

“It’ll be fine here,” Cameron said. “This is better than the island. We’re on the mainland now. Easier to come and go. By boat or car.”

“All right, if everyone’s satisfied,” said Leslie. “Same rules apply. Keep your buddy in sight at all times. One change. Cameron, you’re with Wally now. I’ll watch out for Flynn.”

Flynn swallowed, eyes darting from face to face as if expecting an objection or wiseass remark.

“Later today I’ll lay out the plan,” she said. “Right now we all need some rest. We’ve been up all night. We need to be fresh for what’s coming.”

She turned to Thorn and motioned for him to lead on. “The gun, Thorn. And any other weapons.”

With Prince hobbling beside him, Thorn led them through the house to the guest room, took down the wooden box, and presented Leslie with the .357. She opened the cylinder, cleared the six rounds, and dumped them in her pocket. She handed the pistol to Pauly and told him to take it out to the dock and pitch it into the lagoon.

“Knives in the kitchen, a meat cleaver, a rolling pin. Better toss them overboard while you’re at it.”

“We’ll take our chances with the cutlery,” Leslie said.

She and the Chee brothers went wandering through the house, checking the layout. Flynn stayed put, staring at the floor, lost in a dark mood.

Beside him Cameron studied a photograph on the wall. A black-and-white shot of a teenage Thorn holding up a giant tarpon and grinning for the camera. So young, so full of resolve. Sweat gleamed on his bare chest, muscles roping his arms.

“What a strapping lad,” Cameron said. “That smile, I’ve seen Flynn with the same one, though not lately.”

“Catching a tarpon that size might get it back,” Thorn said.

Flynn huffed, dismissive. More important things to do than fish.

Prince said, “Be thankful, Flynn, you have someone who can teach you such things.”

“Unlike your father?” Thorn said.

“Fifty years in Miami, the man didn’t know a tarpon from a polar bear.”

“He’s the Prince who bribed politicians, got thrown in jail.”

“And died there,” Cameron said. “Good riddance.”

“So you, you’ve skipped a generation.”

“What?”

“Your granddad Reginald, the newspaperman, the idealist who battled corruption, he’s your hero.”

“Ah, Thorn the historian.”

“I’m trying to get a feel for you people. Why you’re doing this.”

“We people, as you say, all have quite different reasons for being here, but we’re unified in our desire to bring a halt to the menace of nuclear power.”

“Is that it? Or is it something simpler?”

Flynn stepped closer to Thorn, eyes slitted in disdain. “You’re losing it, Thorn. This is about nukes. Simple as that. The fuel rods that stay radioactive for centuries. The impact on the aquifer, the wetlands. It’s about the earth, the future.” Flynn shook his head and turned his back on both of them.

“Oh, sure, that’s part of it. Nuclear power.”

“And the other part?” said Cameron. “Please enlighten us.”

“Your family,” Thorn said. “The Princes were a big deal once. But your father pissed it all away.”

“You should ask for a refund on that psychology degree.”

“I think Flynn’s heart is in this, but you, you don’t strike me as a man worried about spent fuel rods. This is your come-from-behind finish, a farewell gesture to Miami. You pull this off, you’re as big a deal as old Granddad. At least to a certain crowd you’ll be a folk hero.”

“You’re dead wrong. I have no ambition to become a celebrity.”

Leslie and the Chee brothers returned. The green python was slung over Pauly’s shoulders like a stole, its tail trailing behind him along the floor. The snake observed Thorn briefly, flicked its tongue, then twisted its head back and forth, surveying the hallway. One long, heaving strand of muscle.

Leslie made the room assignments. Thorn and Pauly would bunk in the twin beds of the guest room. Cameron and Wally were to share the master suite where Thorn’s parents, Dr. Bill and Kate, had spent their married life. Which left Leslie and Flynn in the small bedroom across the hall where Ricki, Thorn’s adoptive sister, had endured her gloomy high school years.

“Everybody get some sleep. We gather at noon, I’ll go over the plan.”

A moment after they parted in the hall, Thorn took a backward glance and saw Leslie brush her fingertips across Flynn’s lower back, a gesture so intimate and natural Thorn felt a whirl of recognition. Flynn and Leslie. A tenderness and familiarity between them Thorn hadn’t noticed or accounted for.

Sure, Leslie’s bond with Cameron Prince had a certain sad logic, a man who’d bulked up to bulletproof himself against a hostile world had partnered with a woman whose gift was seeing past the armored plating to the secret heart within. But Leslie and Flynn were a more natural match. Both had suffered agonizing losses, wounded in ways only one similarly damaged might fully grasp. In that simple consoling touch, Thorn glimpsed the strength of their connection.

Thorn went into the guest room. Pauly followed and elbowed the door shut, then used both hands to guide the python onto the floor.