Nantucket Five-Spot (24 page)

The fireworks. Was it possible?

I jumped up and pushed into David's private office. He was hunched over the computer. Behind him, on the poster from
The Great Escape
, Steve McQueen was still above that second fence, doomed to failure and not giving a shit.

“David.” He looked up. “Have you heard anything about the security arrangements for the fireworks barge?”

“Uh, yeah—they're letting the locals take care of it. Drummond Brothers are doing the show, like always. The town's been using them for years. They've been in business since the fifties. Old man Drummond served in Patton's Sixth Armored Division in the Second World War. He was an artillery expert and I guess it felt natural to—oh shit. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

I nodded. “That's why Jack let the NPD handle the security. He thinks we're incompetent.”

“Jack? Jack Tornovitch?”

I nodded again.

“Okay, what the fuck is happening here?”

“It's a long story.”

“I bet you could give it to me in three sentences. I can give you
Moby Dick
in three sentences. Whale bites off ship captain's leg. Captain goes insane and spends five hundred pages searching for the whale. He finds the whale and it kills him. The end. Three sentences. Look, I'm a newspaperman, Chief. Just give me the lead.”

I took a breath. “Okay. It's a revenge story, David. Just like
Moby Dick
. Haden Krakauer killed Jack's lover—indirectly, maybe. But the girl is still dead. So he's framing Haden for the bombings. It was all leading up to blowing the Pops concert into the stratosphere, and Haden is on the loose now—perfect to take the blame for the attack. Everyone thinks I helped Haden get away, so I'm right up there on the Wanted poster with him.”

He squinted at me. “Tornovitch can't be doing this alone. There has to be an accomplice.”

“There's an accomplice. There's an Iraq war drug scandal. There's a military cover up. There's identity theft, and infidelity, and murder. But I'm out of time to talk.”

“Tell me one thing. Did you actually help Krakauer escape?”

“Hell, no. I want him in jail. He'd be safe in jail. Jack pulled that little trick.”

“He sounds tricky.”

“He is.”

“And he's winning.”

“So far.”

David took off his glasses rubbed his eyes. “What are we going to do?”

I smiled. “I'm going to stop him. And you're going to write about it.”

“Fair enough.”

“I'm going home to get my gun.”

“Chief—”

“David, call Miranda. Tell her I'm all right. Tell her not to go to the concert. And tell her to spread the rumor that there's a bomb at the beach. You too. There's a couple of hours left. Tell everyone you can. There's no way to get the word out officially, but we still have gossip on our side. Spread the rumor. And stay away from Jetties Beach tonight. Just in case.”

He shook my hand with an awkward solemnity. I went upstairs and slipped out the back door, across the parking lot, into the pine woods behind Valero's garden store, and gone.

Chapter Twenty

“… the bombs bursting in air”

I checked the clock on my way out. Six forty-five—I'd been at the
Shoals
office for more than two hours. How was that possible? I had less than two hours before the fireworks began. I needed a car. I needed a Coast Guard helicopter. And I had nothing.

I thought of David's Subaru, but I knew the emergency protocols. I had written them myself. With roadblocks at the Rotary and Fairgrounds Road you could close off all access to downtown from the east and south ends of the island, which included the airport and the inner harbor, as well as Squam, Quidnet, Polpis, 'Sconset, Shimmo, Monomoy, Madequecham…virtually the whole island. A single cruiser at the intersection of Cliff Road and Madaket Road would cut off access from the west.

If you were driving.

I was running, through the Naushop subdivision, behind the storage yards at Valero's and the Emporium parking lot, into the strip of dense undeveloped scrub oak and pitch pine beside the bike path, and finally out between the water company buildings to Milestone Road.

A roadblock had backed up traffic. I had to cross the street, which meant being seen. I crouched in the bushes beyond the bike path. I couldn't afford to choose my moment. Taking a deep breath I sprinted across the asphalt, dodging between the hood of one pickup and the tail gate of another and breaking for the trees, just ahead of a Yates gas truck heading out of town.

My breath was rasping in my throat as I skirted the wetlands at the edge of the harbor, parallel to Orange Street, behind Our Island Home and Marine Home Center, over railings and walls, through backyards, smelling the ripe marshy perfume of the harbor, scraping my hands on the rough wood of the fences, listening for sirens, the black clock ticking down in my head.

Eventually the shoreline curved away from my route and I veered back toward the street, maybe fifty yards from the duck pond where Union Street hooks its sharp left for the straight run into town.

Traffic was light and I saw no pedestrians. Most people were at the concert by now or eating dinner. I crossed the grassy vacant lot at the corner of Union and started up Orange Street. I walked fast, looking down or turning away when a car came toward me. Running would draw attention. When I passed York Street I expected to see a police car or two parked in front of my house. But there was just a gardener's truck with its trailer loaded with lawn mowers.

I didn't get it. Why would Jack leave my house unguarded? I jogged back down the street and ran to Dover Street—the next one over. There was a dark blue state police cruiser parked far up the road, almost all the way to Pleasant Street.

***

I cut between garages, pulled myself over a crumbling retaining wall and crouched in the middle of my neighbor's wild blackberry patch. I scratched up my hands picking a few while I studied my backyard. The berries were delicious, tart and juicy, and I was hungry. I ate some more. I felt like a character in one of the fairy tales I used to read to my kids, miraculously surviving on nuts and berries in some enchanted forest. But my forest had scraps of toilet paper caught in the privet and beer cans in the bushes.

The yard was empty, the street was quiet. I held my breath, listening. Birds in the trees, a distant radio, leaves rustling in the south wind. Two mopeds grumbling by on Orange Street. Nothing else.

As I pushed through the hedge, a neighborhood dog caught my scent and yelped out the alarm. It turned into a chorus, but no one came charging out of the house. I crossed the yard quickly to the basement entrance, let myself in, and crept up the dark stairs to the door that opened into my kitchen.

I could hear the television faintly from inside. I opened the door a crack. Someone was listening to the NFL network. Where else could you watch the famous 1990 Redskins–49ers NFC playoff game on a summer evening? Whoever got the inside duty was taking it easy. Probably drinking my beer, too. All the better for me.

I eased into the kitchen. Maybe I could time my dash to the bedroom with Montana's big interception. One step inside and two men jumped me. They grabbed my arms while a third one put a gun to my head. He was young and eager, with the same storm trooper crew cut and heavy leather utility belt as the others.

“We got him, Captain Fraker! We got him!”

“Calm down, son,” I said. “We don't want any accidents here today.”

“Step away from the chief,” Lonnie said, in his always surprising high-pitched nasal voice. It occurred to me that with a full head of hair and a baritone he could have been running the State Police by now.

The kid backed off.

“Do we take him in, sir? Should I handcuff him?” said the one holding my left arm. He smelled of Thai food and Old Spice cologne.

“Not quite yet. Let him go and stand down.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it, Humphries.”

“Are you going to read him his rights?”

“He knows his rights. Go inside and turn off the television.” He turned back to me. “Those dogs gave you away, Chief. Tough to sneak around a neighborhood with dogs everywhere.”

I massaged my arm where one of the troopers had grabbed me. “Four guys?”

“The order came straight from Tornovitch. Guys everywhere. There's a Red Alert out for you. Armed and dangerous, mandated use of extreme force. Seems like you're a regular terrorist now, Chief.”

“You believe that?”

He laughed. “Hell no.”

The kid came back from the living room and set the remote on the counter.

“Hell of a game,” Fraker said. “Too bad they didn't have instant replay in those days. What a steal. Bad calls are the worst. Like today. The biggest asshole east of the Mississippi informed the whole JTTF that you and Krakauer are trying to blow up the island.
You and Krakauer
.”

“No one's going to argue with Jack Tornovitch. If the war on terror goes on long enough, he'll be running the whole show.”

“Ain't it always the way. Assholes run everything.”

The clock ticked. A noisy crowd of kids passed the house, heading into town.

“Here's what I think,” he went on. “You came back for your Glock—come on, why else? You don't need your cuff links, Chief.”

“So?”

“So I'm betting against the assholes, for once. Go grab your gun.”

“Sir,” the big trooper blurted. “You can't do this.”

Lonnie's gun snapped in his hand, and his arm came up fast and precisely calibrated, like one sweep of a windshield wiper set on high. “I'm doing it,” he said. “Step away from Chief Kennis. Now.”

“But sir—that's insubordination, abetting a fugitive, obstruction of justice—you could lose your job, you could go to jail, and—”

“But only if it's true, Stallings. Only if it's true. Set your guns down on the floor. All of you.”

He caught my eye and jerked his head to the left—get going. I sprinted into the bedroom, opened the gun safe in the closet, pulled out the Glock and a spare magazine. I pulled a knapsack from a high shelf and I snagged a change of clothes from the drawers—shirt and socks, pants and a sweater. I was going to be chilled to the bone by the time I finished my night's work.

Lonnie was waiting for me at the kitchen door, his soldiers huddled together by the sink. I pushed past them to grab a plastic trash bag and stuffed the clothes into it, then jammed the bundle into the knapsack.

I was ready to go.

Lonnie had his gray, wide brimmed police hat in his hand. He dug a set of car keys out of his pocket and dangled them in front of me.

“I parked a cruiser on Dover Street. Maybe you noticed. Take it and go. I don't want to know where you're going and you don't want to tell me.” He pulled a pair of Maui Jims out of his breast pocket, extended the hat. “Put this on. Take the sunglasses, too. No one'll give you second glance.”

I put on the hat and sunglasses. After a brief appraising cud-chew, like he was cleaning his teeth with his tongue, he nodded his approval. “Close enough for Nantucket, right? Don't stop. Don't talk to anyone.”

“Thanks, Lonnie.”

I paused in the kitchen one more time to grab a plastic freezer storage bag out of the drawer beside the fridge. Then I went out the way I came in, down the basement stairs, through the hedge, over the retaining wall to Dover Street.

It was full dark as I climbed into the cruiser and gunned the engine. The dashboard clock read 8:01. Time was tearing past. I resisted the urge to use the flashers. Traffic was light and I didn't want to call attention to myself. But I could feel panic tightening around my head like a metal band. If I was too late, if Beaumont launched those bombs…but it was crazy to think that way, stupid. I had to concentrate, and I had to keep moving—nothing else.

No distractions.

A National Guard Humvee rolled past me on Cliff Road, heading for town. The driver saluted. I saluted back.

Five minutes later I was pulling up in front of Beaumont's at the Deacon's Way hideout. The rose trellis was leaning crazily off the house. Had someone been trying to climb it? I glanced up at the widow's walk. It was possible. Beaumont had stashed Haden here, and he had tried to escape. He didn't make it though, or I would have heard from him. I took a breath. He had to be alive. Zeke still needed him. More than that, Zeke still needed to punish him.

I slipped the Glock into the plastic bag, and sprinted over to the open garage, unbuttoning my shirt. When I was down to my boxer briefs I grabbed the surfboard out of the garage. It was a nine-six, bright yellow longboard, the color dulled by layers of surf wax—perfect. I slipped the knapsack back over my shoulders, and jammed my feet into my heavy police brogans. I wouldn't have to run in them much more. I had blisters from the afternoon's exertions and the leather was raw against my bare feet. But that was better than trying to run barefoot through the bracken that lined the dunes.

I could see the lights of the fireworks barge from the beach, and hear the music, mysterious and romantic, drifting across the dune grass on the pale wind. The clear night spread across a dense crust of stars. I could just make out an embedded sliver of moon. With the low-tide smell of the salt water in my nose I took the plastic bag in my teeth, threw the board flat on the still water, and started paddling. The water was shallow and tepid.

I calculated the distance at half a mile. I dug in hard, tasting the plastic, breathing through my nose, watching the nose of the surfboard as it cut through the water, skimming just above the surface. There was no police presence in the harbor—not a Coast Guard cutter, nothing. It confirmed my suspicions. Tornovitch must have called them off. It was a good plan, but it was working against him now. He had emptied the Sound of anyone who might stall or impede me.

The music stopped and the crackle of applause floated out from shore. After a few moments of rustling silence, the orchestra launched into the William Tell Overture. I matched my strokes to the thumping beat of the music The fireworks were about to begin.

I was almost out of time.

A big motor launch bobbed at the side of the barge, tied off to a spar. That had to be Beaumont's ride. The barge was massive, riding high in the water. I slipped off the surfboard. The incoming tide would pull the board into the harbor. If some civic-minded yachtsman turned it in to the police, or some broke scalloper tried to sell it on the Nantucket Re-Use exchange, I'd know. And if some greedy surfer snagged it? I'd put Billy Delavane—and his daughter—on the lookout. It would give her another chance to play junior detective.

I pulled myself up on the deck.

Beaumont was at the far end, working a triple mortar on a tripod base. It looked like a giant's three-barreled shotgun, set into a hinged framework that Beaumont was cranking to horizontal using a wheel in the side. The whole thing had an ominously homemade look to it. The deranged hobbyist with his lethal toys.

Randy Ray and a summer special named Paul, along with the two Drummond brothers, were lying unconscious at my end of the barge. Closer to Beaumont's launcher, I could make out the unconscious form of Haden Krakauer in the flickering light.

It was exactly as I had predicted. Now it was down to me and Ezekiel Beaumont on this floating stage, surrounded by wood frames for the fireworks, filled with big clay cylinders and banks of cannons. With their basketball-sized heads they looked like racks of oversized ice-cream cones. I lay there getting ready to rush Beaumont as the first round of fireworks started going off on an electronic timer. They shot out of the three-foot mortars, each with the company logo engraved in the base. The booming fusillades left smoke trails hanging in the air. The small missiles flew to the top of their arc and exploded, bathing the barge in a flash of gaudy carnival light.

The music was swelling from the beach. I pulled my gun out of the bag and scrambled to my feet as another round launched.

Beaumont sensed my movement. He spun around and stared at me, dumbfounded. The rest of his features jerked back from his mouth, until his face was nothing but a blade of nose and two shrinking eyes, fast disappearing into his cheekbones. Beaumont couldn't fathom my appearance. How could I have figured him out, and caught him in the act?

He didn't even try for his gun, stuck into his waist band with the ski mask he wore during the initial attack. No one could testify later that he wasn't Haden Krakauer. Zeke was at least five inches taller, but it was dark and concussions scrambled eyewitness testimony. It could have worked, and it still might. I hadn't stopped him yet.

I stepped forward, gun leveled at him. “Move away from the mortar.”

“You can't be here. You're in jail.”

“Step away from the mortar, Beaumont.”

“How could you possibly know my name?”

“I know all about you. Now move.”

He tipped his head toward the launcher. “They're cluster bombs. Three of them. An antipersonnel unit and two incendiaries, all on a timer. Nothing you can do but watch the show.”