Fatal Harbor (24 page)

He fired again. I closed my eyes, flinched.

He had missed.

I started moving back, using my hands, scooting on my butt. My right leg felt as hot as molten lead and about as useful. I couldn’t find my Beretta. He took one step, and another.

“Broke a shitload of ribs . . . you did. . . .” he gasped again. “But . . . I’ll still walk . . . out of here . . . alive. . . .”

The living room. Moved toward the living room. Front door. Looked as big as a barn door, but I had to get outside. Had to.

He stumbled on the stairs, caught himself with his free hand on the banister. He let out a groan and fired at me again.

This round blasted through a window.

I came upon a coffee table. Wedged myself up using both of my arms and my good leg. I tried to forget my right leg. Tried to forget the roaring pain. The grayness of what I was seeing. I got up on my left leg, started hopping, dragging, gritting my teeth. Looked back. Saw a stream of shockingly bright red blood behind me. Wondered foolishly how so much blood got there in such a quick time.

“Cole!”

A couch in front of me.

I rolled over the back of the couch as another shot ripped out, striking my left foot. I screamed again as my right leg hit the back of the couch, then the cushions, and then the floor.

Music was still playing from the television. I was on the floor. The front door seemed even bigger but looked to be a mile away. I was in front of a fireplace. I dragged myself over to the front of the fireplace.

I heard a whimpered squeal from behind me, and then the same noise again, deeper.

My chest was pounding, I was panting, and everything about me grayed in and out.

Up at the fireplace, I grabbed a poker, flipped around. I didn’t faint from the pain.

A quick and good moment.

Curt Chesak staggered around the couch I had just flipped over. My blood was smeared on the couch and its cushions.

He stood still, weaving. “All this . . . this . . . for a kid you didn’t even know . . . and a dyke who’s a vegetable? For real? Christ. . . .”

I held the poker out. He laughed. “Last stand . . . of a good man . . . hmm? You got hit in the thigh, Cole . . . I could stand here . . . and just watch you . . . bleed out. . . .”

My hand wavered. It seemed like the poker was getting heavier with each slippery second passing by.

He grinned. It was one damn scary look. Shadows seemed to move.

Curt raised his pistol. “So . . . close . . . your eyes . . . if you please. . . .”

I spat at him. “To hell with you.”

His grin grew wider.

The pistol was now level with his eyes.

He stared down at me.

Stared.

Gasped.

Sighed.

His arm fell to his side, his pistol clattering to the floor.

From one moment to the next, his face turned the color of an old T-shirt.

Then he collapsed.

Revealing a short dark-skinned man standing behind him, wearing a black jumpsuit.

Suraj Gurung. The Royal Gurkha Rifleman who worked now as a driver for Lawrence Todd Thomas, late of the CIA.

In his left hand he held the wicked sharp curved knife called a kukri, which was dripping blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

H
e put the knife in a scabbard at his side, came to me quickly, knelt down. “Are there any others in the house, Mister Cole?”

“Just the two in the kitchen.”

A quick nod. “We have already met.”

“How . . . he had a Kevlar vest on. How did you get him?”

“I saw his shape from the rear. I severed his spine, just below the vest. Quite simple, it was.”

He had a small knapsack on his back, which he shrugged off. “You are bleeding profusely, Mister Cole.”

“Getting shot tends to do that.”

From the knapsack he took out a medical kit, some bandages and compresses. He had a small pair of scissors, which he used to quickly split open my pants leg. He expertly went to work, tied off something on my thigh, and said, “I have arrived here in time, luckily, is this true?”

“Quite true,” I said. “How in hell did you find me?”

His smile was wide and white. “Mister Lawrence, he is a very wise man, is he not?”

I remembered the super-duper spy cell phone he had given me back in Virginia. A phone that no doubted carried a tracking device.

“A very wise man. How long have you been following me?”

His hands worked quite fast on my leg. “Long enough. I was in the woods with you, watching you watching the house. I even saw those two huntsmen make water upon your back. You did very well, not moving.”

“Didn’t have a choice.”

“Do any of us?”

He sat back, as if to admire his job. “Excuse me for a bit, I have something to do. Please close your eyes and relax. I will be back most presently.”

I sat up against the fireplace, took his advice, gritted my teeth. I think I passed out, because it seemed like Suraj was back within seconds, kneeling in front of me. “I have a quandary,” he said, his voice concerned.

“Tell me what it is,” I said.

“Mister Lawrence, he told me that I was to follow you, to make sure the job was done, to bring back proof and to ensure you are not harmed. But, alas, you are harmed. And I am concerned to move you. If I do so, the bleeding will no doubt resume and put you in deadly peril. But if I were to call for medical assistance and stay with you, then I cannot complete my task. So it seems—”

I interrupted him. “Get out, then. Get out and when you’re far enough away, make the call.”

He nodded. “Is that fair to you?”

“Very fair. But will you do me a favor?”

“But of course. I will be honored.”

I pointed to the other side of the house. “In the woods back there, you’ll probably find a man with a beard, arms tied up, wandering through the woods. If you find him, set him free. Don’t harm him. Just free him.”

A pleasant nod. “It will be done.” He went back to his kit. “I have morphine.”

“Will it put me to sleep?”

“Most likely.”

“Then I’ll tough it out. I have a task to complete as well.”

Such a wide smile. “I cannot imagine what.”

“Then don’t worry. And get moving.”

He gently touched my shoulder, said, “Go with God, Mister Cole,” and then he stepped back. He picked up a heavy green trash bag, bulging at the bottom.

And the shadows moved, and he was gone.

I waited and waited, caught my breath, and I pushed myself up. Grimaced. The pain seemed to roar right up my right leg to my gut and chest and to the back of my head. I went through the living room, to a door that led—I hoped—to the garage. It opened up easily enough. I took another deep breath. I fumbled with my right hand, found a light switch.

Lit up the place.

I looked around.

There.

A gas can, next to a riding lawnmower.

I hopped over, gritting my teeth even more, grabbed the gas can and managed to do so without falling over. Back into the living room. To the drapes by the other side of the room. I tugged and tugged and they came free. They fell to the floor, and to my surprise and delight, I found my Beretta. The both of us had gone through a lot, and I hated the thought of losing it. I picked it up, tried twice to put it back in my holster, missed each time.

Time. Running out of time.

I slipped the pistol into my waistband. Picked up the gas can again. Kicked the drapes against the wall. I opened up the gas can, tipped it over with my foot. The stench of gasoline came quickly to my nostrils as the gasoline burbled out over the carpet and to the drapes.

I tore off my gloves, put them in the pile as well, along with the remaining tape on my arm, the stun gun, and my equipment bag.

Back to the fireplace, picked up a box of matches. Sweat was running down my back. I took my handkerchief out, opened the door. And stepped outside into the blessedly cool and free air.

I turned and started lighting off the matches. One, two, three. Each time I lit the match I tossed it into the living room

They all sputtered out.

Sirens were sounding off in the distance.

Another match flared, flew to the living room, where it fell at the right place. Flames rolled and roared up, and I took the box of matches and tossed it into the now-roaring flames.

I slowly and carefully backed away, and the last thing I saw was the body of Curt Chesak, on the floor, arms at its side.

With no head.

Outside, I walked as far as I could from the house. There was a large boulder to the right of the driveway, and I sat down. I took my Beretta out of my waistband and dropped it to the grass. I tried my very best not to move my right leg. From one of my pockets, I took out a small flashlight, lit up the surroundings. My Beretta was there. I aimed the flashlight at my left foot, which was tingling. I moved my foot about. Nothing seemed to hurt, nothing seemed to be bleeding. I twisted my foot about, saw the heel of my torn sneaker. Lucky shot for me, not so lucky shot for Curt Chesak.

Over at the house, the interior was a bubbling orange, and then a near window shattered, and there was a
whoosh
and roar as oxygen rushed in to feed the fire. The flames bulged out and up and spread up the near walls. Something morose seemed to settle around my spirit, thinking once again of my poor house back in Tyler Beach, seeing once again the flames dancing around the place that had been my home for years.

I suppose I should have also felt something profound at that moment. Of justice being served. Of a debt being paid. Of Diane Woods, in a coma miles away, who’d never have to fear this man ever again.

Instead, my right leg was hurting so much that I gasped every few minutes. I was cold. My hands were shaking. And I had a desperate need to urinate.

Nothing profound, but damn true.

Sirens were louder.

I looked down the driveway. Red and blue lights led up the far trees, and I saw headlights approach. I held my arms out, and waited.

As chance would have it, Officer Templar was the first on the scene. He came up to me, flashlight in hand, and I said “I’m unarmed, but I’m shot. Right leg. I also have a pistol on the ground in front of me. It’s on safe.”

“I’ll be damned . . . Cole, the writer?”

“The same.”

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“Wish I could say.”

Two fire engines came up the driveway, and I felt better seeing an ambulance from the Osgood Volunteer Ambulance Squad bring up the rear.

Part of the house’s roof collapsed in a shower of flame, smoke, and sparks.

Less than a half hour later, I was in an emergency room bay at the famed Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, New Hampshire. Surgeons and nurses fussed and worked over my wounded leg.

By then I had drugs going into my system and the ache of my right leg seemed to lift right up, like a lake mist, and then I was told I was going to surgery, and that seemed very fine to me.

I woke up here and there, sipping some water and beef broth from very helpful and beautiful nurses who took good care of me, and I was once led around my hospital room to do something important, like pee in a bottle, and when I finally woke up for real, one arm had an IV tube running into it and my other arm was handcuffed to my bed.

Interesting combination.

I peered down at my right leg. Heavily bandaged and suspended in air.

Lay back down in bed. Tried to relax, and by damn, I did fall asleep.

Again I woke up, and a young nurse in scrubs with fine blond hair bustled around, checking my vitals, checking my bandages, and she gave me a bed bath and apologized in advance for assaulting whatever was left of my dignity, and, remembering the scores of times I had been in the hospital before, I just smiled and let her do her work.

A tall surgeon with big hands and small, laughing eyes came in and gave me a thorough medical debrief of my gunshot wound, explained the surgery, and said in a hopeful tone that major arteries and tendons had been missed, and while the leg would ache like the proverbial son-of-a-bitch on occasion in the future, I should have a relatively clean recovery.

He shut his clipboard and glanced down at my handcuffed wrist. “Medically speaking, you’re going to be in fine shape, Mister Cole. As to legally speaking . . . I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“Not a problem. I appreciate what you and everyone else have done.”

He looked back at the door. “There’s someone here to see you from the State Police. I’ve been asked to let him in if I think you’re ready to be questioned. But if you’d like to take another day or two off. . . .”

I shook my head. “Go ahead, let him in. I don’t mind.”

The doctor nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you again later tonight.”

He left and a minute later, Detective Pete Renzi came in, not looking particularly happy as he closed the door behind him.

Renzi scraped a chair over, sat down. He looked very much like a man trying to keep things under control. I kept my face as bland as possible, looking right back at him.

Then he lost it.

“You stupid damn fool! You didn’t goddamn listen to me, did you! Went out bumbling on your own, got a bullet in your leg, probably damn near got killed after I had warned you . . . and what happened in Osgood is not only the lead goddamn story in every newspaper and television station in New England, it’s even made the friggin’
New York Times
and all the major networks!”

He paused, face red, breathing hard. I moved some, the handcuff rattling on my bed railing.

“Gee, dear,” I said. “We never talk anymore.”

I didn’t think Renzi was the kind of guy to slap a handcuffed patient, but he sure looked tempted. “Let me tell you what we got going on in Osgood, okay?”

“Sure. I’m not going anywhere.”

And I rattled the handcuff once more for emphasis.

He leaned forward. “You want to know why? I’ve got you, with a bullet in your leg. You were found about fifty feet away from a remote luxury home that was burning to the ground when police and fire units got there. State fire marshal’s office quickly determined the cause of the fire was arson. And when we poked through the ruins, we found three bodies. All male. All missing their heads. Care to say anything about that, Lewis?”