The Drifter (29 page)

Dinah

D
inah crossed North Avenue at the top of the hill, looking down toward the bridge where she hoped to put the truck into the river.

Miles clutched her waist and whimpered softly in the seat beside her. She wanted to put her arms around him, but the skinny man with the spooky eyes had his own arm wrapped around her son’s neck, and she needed both hands to drive anyway. She’d take her son back soon.

Halfway down and picking up speed, she realized that she’d forgotten about the rebuilt bridge with its thick concrete guardrails. If she wanted to put the truck in the river, she’d have to turn a hard right at mid-bridge and jump the curb.

But she couldn’t see it working now. She couldn’t see this truck breaking through the thick concrete to make it to the river, not at an angle, not already slowed by the high curb, and the river only a few dozen yards across. If she made the turn at high speed, she’d flip the truck. She could see it happening in her mind.

They wouldn’t make it to the water. She’d likely just flip the truck.

With the hundreds of car accident victims she’d seen at the hospital, she could see clearly the trauma of the accident, to her and to Miles. They had their seat belts on, but Miles was only eight. The seat belts wouldn’t do enough.

It would break his neck.

And the man with the scars was behind them somewhere with his triggering device.

So the truck would explode anyway, with them both still in it.

But at least the blast would be in an open area, with only a few big residential buildings around them. Hopefully, most of the people would still be at work.

Thinking all this with her foot pressing harder on the gas and the bridge getting closer and closer.

Then they were at the river and Miles was crying, “Mommy, I’m scared.” And the curb and guardrail were so high. She couldn’t make her arms turn the wheel, she just couldn’t. For a brief moment she saw the river shimmering below them, stretching toward the business district.

Then the bridge was past and the road ran uphill again.

As if on its own, the truck slowed for the light.

“Go right here,” said the man with the spooky eyes. His gun still pressed into her son’s side. “We’re going downtown.”

She turned right down the narrow corridor between the tall new condominiums where the tanneries had once stood, seeing the river in tantalizing steel-gray glimpses between the buildings, bounded now by concrete banks on both sides. Sometimes she drove to work this way, liking the vitality of it, the big buildings and storefronts, the way the city was always making itself new again.

Then she caught her first glimpse of the tall white tower at the
edge of downtown, the tallest building in the state. She knew their destination.

And how many people would die.

She thought of the road ahead. There were four more bridges before they came to the left for the tall, white bank building. All had been repaired or rebuilt in recent years, but one bridge had a block-long approach and open space to one side. She thought she could get up some speed and put the truck through the fence, over the bank, and into the water. She pressed the gas down.

“It’s okay, Miles, honey,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay. I love you very much.”

She pushed the truck down the hill and around the curve where the road changed to four lanes, picking up as much speed as she could handle. Four blocks ahead was the Cherry Street Bridge. She was going almost fifty. The traffic was thin on this Veterans Day afternoon.

It wouldn’t snow for another month at least, she thought.

She had always loved the first snow.

The bridge came into view. She could see her path. She took her hand off the gearshift and put it across her son’s body, as much to simply touch his small, vulnerable body as anything like a hope that she might protect him from what came next.

“Go straight, slow down,” said the man with the spooky eyes. “Slow down and go straight or I shoot the boy!” He jabbed the gun hard into Miles’s side and the boy cried out in pain.

Her foot moved instinctively to the brake.

But before she could press down, a tan SUV with a big tubular bumper came up fast on her left, pulled even, then swerved hard right into the Mitsubishi’s left front tire. Right at her feet.

She couldn’t see the driver, but she recognized the Yukon.

There was a crunch and something gave way, something
important. The steering wheel jerked and spun in her hand. She began to fight it automatically but forced herself to let go of the wheel, pivot her foot to the gas, and stomp down.

By the time the truck began to tilt, she was turned in her seat with her strong right arm pressing her son’s chest hard into the back of his seat, and her left hand on the barrel of the spooky man’s pistol.

Peter

I
n the cargo box, the plastic drums shifted in their webbing as the truck lurched hard to one side. Peter dug his toes into the lines of rugged conduit to hold himself, the white static powering his muscles to lock himself in place while he hacked the plastic cover off the central control box. It came off in sharp chunks, but it came off. Inside was the cell-phone-turned-detonator and the twelve-volt battery tucked under the neat bundles of colored wires that led to the blasting caps and the C-4. It was almost beautiful in its elegance.

It was possible that Boomer had built in a false circuit to kill anyone trying to disable the bomb, but Peter didn’t have time to even contemplate that. He had to take this apart now or die in the attempt. He could clearly envision the scarred man with his phone in his hand. Beginning to make the call that would complete the circuit and set off the bomb.

He traced the wires with his finger, thinking that the battery was the key to everything. Without the battery, the blasting caps
would not explode. Without the blasting caps, the C-4 wouldn’t go, or the rest of it.

The truck tilted beneath him. The static flared as Peter’s muscles responded. He dropped to his belly and wedged his feet farther under the conduit. Then reached into the control box, through the wires, to the big battery. Grabbed it hard and maneuvered it out from beneath the bundled wires.

Boomer had actually soldered the power wires to the battery’s terminals in great greasy conductive lumps. The white static burned cold as he wrapped the wires in his fist and pulled.

Trying to free them from the big battery.

Hoping to hell there wasn’t anything else he should have done instead.

Lewis

H
ere we go, kid. Hang on to that dog. Remember, do what I tell you.”

Mingus growled over the roar of the engine as Lewis turned the wheel and punched the Yukon’s front end hard into the Mitsubishi’s driver’s-side tire. He saw Dinah’s face in her window, her eyes wide. Metal shrieked and the seat belt bit into him.

The Yukon’s nose dropped as the bigger truck crushed its front suspension, then pushed it hard away. But something had broken or bent at that side of the Mitsubishi, the tie rod or axle, forcing it into an abrupt turn. The right-side tires left the ground as the truck began to tilt.

“Charlie, you okay? Charlie?”

No answer from the backseat. The Yukon sputtered and died.

Lewis looked through his cracked windshield to see Dinah in the cab of the Mitsubishi, wrestling with the skinny guy in the uniform for the gun. The big truck heaved across two lanes of traffic and up a curb to smash its passenger side into a lamppost.

“Charlie, get out right now and run away as fast as you can.”

Lewis slipped off his seat belt and climbed out of the ruined Yukon to help Dinah. He looked over his shoulder as he ran and saw the black Ford pull up a block away.

The scarred man had something in his hand that looked like a cell phone.

Even at that distance, Lewis could see the look of rapture on the scarred man’s face as his thumb stabbed down on the keypad.

Lewis sprinted around the front of the Mitsubishi and hauled open the passenger door.

Peter

T
he detonator phone’s screen flashed white as an incoming call activated the vibrator.

The circuit closed. The vibrator hummed.

But the wiring hung torn from the big battery like a broken spiderweb.

Peter remained miraculously alive.

“Go go go,” he said as he pulled his feet from under the conduit and jumped to the plank floor. Midden was kicking the twisted roll-up door free of its broken latch, sheared off by the impact of the collisions.

Together they hauled up the door and saw the scarred man standing outside the Ford SUV, pressing a button on his cell phone again and again. Midden took a target pistol from his coat pocket and shot out two tires on the Ford without appearing to aim. Boomer looked up from his phone, startled.

A dog growled low and deep.

Peter knew that growl.

The growl sounded like his white static felt. Like overwhelming fury harnessed to an unrelenting will.

“Mingus, get him.”

Not that the dog was waiting for permission. He bolted past the open roll-up door, all fluid muscle and flashing teeth and orange polka-dotted fur that shone somehow bright under the pale November sky.

Boomer’s eyes grew wide, and he turned to run. Mingus growled happily at the sight.

Mingus wouldn’t actually eat the man, would he? Although Peter hoped the dog would at least chew on him some.

Behind the big Ford, a black unmarked police car glided to a halt, a cockeyed gumball flashing red on its roof. Lipsky unfolded himself from behind the wheel with his pistol in one hand and his badge in the other.

“Nobody move!” he shouted. “You’re all under arrest!”

Lipsky looked good, Peter had to admit. The detective clearly had his survival strategy worked out. He’d be the good guy. The savior of the city.

But the man in the black canvas chore coat reached out his hand, the target pistol like a pointing finger. The single report was surprisingly quiet in the still air.

A faint red hole appeared in Lipsky’s forehead.

He looked vaguely surprised, just for a moment. Then he dropped like a stone.

Peter jumped to the ground and ran around to the cab of the truck. Thinking of Dinah up there with Felix.

But Peter was too late.

Felix lay curled into a ball on the median. Lewis held Miles securely in his arms, grinning wide while Charlie helped his mom out of the truck.

As it turned out, Lewis was a hero after all.

“The cop is dead, and the bomb’s out of commission,” said Peter.

“That’s good,” said Lewis, “’cause this kid’s heavy.” Although the way he held the boy, hands locked tight together, face half buried in his hair, it looked like he’d never let Miles go.

Peter had wondered what Lewis would do if he had the chance. If Lewis would step into that empty space.

He felt happy for Lewis, and for Dinah. This might be the best possible result.

For himself, he felt only relief as the pressure began to ease in his head. The white static deflating like spent foam from a fire extinguisher, leaving behind it only the shakes, the beginning of a killer headache.

He went to find the man in the black barn coat.

Midden stood in the open cargo bay of the Mitsubishi, with his target pistol pressed into the soft flesh under his own chin. Finger on the trigger, knuckle gone white with pressure.

“I think you’d better give me that,” said Peter, reaching out his hand.

Midden stared at him, dark eyes swimming in unwept tears. “I’ve done so much,” he said. “You’ll never know.”

“I do know,” said Peter gently. “Really, I do. Give me the weapon.”

But he didn’t wait for the other man to move. He extended his hand with infinite care and took the pistol from the other man’s hand. Then looped an arm around the man’s shoulder and pulled him in close.

“You’re okay,” he said. “It’s all okay. My name’s Peter.”

The sound of sirens rose up around them as they stood, coming no doubt from the Veterans Day parade less than a mile away.

Peter had another thought. “Lewis,” he called out. “Hey, Lewis.” He stuck his head around the corner of the truck.

Lewis stood watching Dinah with a dopey grin on his face. Dinah looked deeply confused but not entirely unhappy. The boys jumped up and down like maniacs.

“Lewis, you better get out of here before the cops come,” said Peter. “And take this guy with you. He’s a friend of ours.”

Lewis opened his mouth to talk, but Peter shook his head.

“He’s a friend. And I’ll deal with the cops,” he said. “I’ll find you in a few days. You know we’re still missing one asshole. Skinner’s still going to make out like a bandit on this.”

Lewis nodded. Then ducked in cautiously to peck Dinah on the cheek. Dinah didn’t lean in to the kiss, but she didn’t move away, either. Her eyes were shining.

The sound of the sirens grew louder, and came from all directions.

“Come on,” said Lewis to Midden. “We gotta skate.”

As the two men jogged across the bridge to disappear into the tangled streets of Brewer’s Hill, Peter turned to Dinah. “You’re okay?”

“Oh, hell, no,” she said, tears streaming down her face. She pulled her boys close with a ferocious smile. “But I’m good.”

“I’m going to take off for a few minutes,” said Peter. “Get hold of my dog. I don’t want the cops to shoot him. But I’ll be right back.”

T
he British Virgin Islands were a boater’s paradise, with steady winter winds, sheltered anchorages, and excellent restaurants. The sailing yacht
Skin Deep
swung on her anchor in thirty feet of turquoise water off Cooper Island. Manchioneel Bay was crowded with boats, the Christmas tourist season in full flood.

The fifty-foot cruiser was a beautiful boat, her sleek lines much admired by the charter tourists from Indiana and Missouri in their smaller rented plastic tubs.
Skin Deep
’s owner had brought her in by himself, the boat apparently rigged to sail single-handed with every modern convenience.

Like the boat, her owner was handsome with an aristocratic charm, clearly a man of means and much invited to dinner at the Cooper Island Beach Club. He flirted shamelessly with the wives and daughters and impressed the men with his broad knowledge of fine wines and the financial markets. When asked what he did for a living, he smiled broadly and said only that he was an investor whose biggest bet had paid off handsomely. Then changed the subject to various routes through the islands to South America. He planned to make Rio in time for Carnival.

After dark, the reggae grew louder in the beachside bars. Daiquiri-stunned tourists steered their buzzing dinghies uncertainly from the Beach Club to their chartered tubs. Nobody noticed the silent swimmers easing through the black water toward
Skin Deep
’s teak-trimmed stern ladder.

Three forms floated like ghosts up her side and into her salon. Footprints wet on the deck, and warm as blood.

Then came a moment when the boat rocked violently, but only for a moment. Perhaps just a rogue wave in the night, from a ship passing far out at sea.

Then
Skin Deep
’s hatches slid shut one by one. The generator started up and the air-conditioning came on, the metallic purr floating softly across the water. For a long time, no other sound could be heard.

In the morning, the charter tourists noticed that
Skin Deep
, that elegant sailing yacht, seemed to have slipped her moorings in the night and headed off to sea.

—

Standing behind the big chrome wheel, steering past Great Dog Island, Lewis was sorry they couldn’t keep the boat.

When the news of the bomb came out, the markets panicked. Even though the bomb didn’t actually explode, Skinner’s scheme paid off in a big way.

So once they had the account numbers and passwords, once the money was transferred and laundered, Lewis could buy his own boat. They all could. They could buy a damn fleet.

Although he was probably just going to go back home. He and Dinah were really talking again. And those boys. He was crazy about those boys.

He didn’t know if it would work out. But he could try.

It was amazing what happened when you started doing the right thing.

He could see Midden and Peter inside the boat’s salon, talking quietly with Skinner, who lay wide-eyed and duct-taped on the teak floor. Skinner’s laptop was open on the chart table, waiting for the satellite connection.

The lights of Virgin Gorda were gone behind the headland when Peter came out of the salon with two cold bottles of Red Stripe.

He took a deep breath of the cool night air to settle the white static and closed the door behind him. “It’s done.” He handed Lewis a beer.

Lewis smiled, his tilted grin wide. “How much?”

“You won’t believe it,” said Peter. The breeze felt clean on his face, and the lights on the distant islands looked close enough to touch. The boat lifted on the waves and he felt his shoulders loosen and drop. “More than an honest man could make in a hundred lifetimes.”

“Never said I was an honest man,” said Lewis, his grin white in the dark night. “Four-way split, right?”

“Our deal was eighty-twenty, remember? Eighty for you, twenty for Dinah.”

Lewis shook his head. “I invalidate that agreement, motherfucker. Make it an even split, four ways. You, me, Midden, and Dinah.”

“What you do with your money is up to you,” said Peter. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“We’ll work that out,” said Lewis. “I got some ideas. Midden and Josie talking about the vet center, want to get it going for real.” Lewis flashed the tilted grin again. “Got some decent funding now. Do some good in the world. Could use us a jarhead.”

“I can’t spend the winter in Wisconsin,” said Peter. “If I’m stuck inside more than twenty minutes, I start climbing the walls. It took me eight Xanax to manage the plane trip here.”

“Got people you can talk to about that,” said Lewis, not unkindly. “Don’t have to be no permanent condition.”

Josie had told Peter the same thing, before she’d kissed him good-bye. She was staying in Milwaukee. She had work to do.

“Here’s the thing,” said Peter, and opened his arms to the warm Caribbean wind. A smile spread across his face. “Mostly I’d just rather be outside. Someplace where the weather isn’t trying to kill me.”