Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) (12 page)

A gust of wind roughened the surface of the cove, blurring the wine-dark mirror and kicking up a flurry of sand from the beach. Leslie brushed her hand in front of her face as if wiping away a cobweb. The croc disappeared from its perch on the mangrove roots, off prowling.

“And how do you accomplish this? You and these people.”

“We have a plan. A very good plan.”

“So you break into the plant, shut off the power, you’re a hero to your cause, then the next day they turn the power back on and they track down Leslie Levine and shut her away in prison. What good have you done?”

More circles, deeper in the sand, drawn faster, interlocking, concentric.

“I’m no martyr.”

“You damn sure sound like one.”

“I don’t plan on getting caught.”

“Nobody ever does.”

“We’re going to make as much noise as we can. There’s no choice.”

“Listen to yourself. You’re talking like a half-baked terrorist.”

She turned her head and regarded him with those rich brown eyes. Rimmed with sadness, but resolute.

“The natural world, all those things you care about, Thorn, it’s being destroyed, bit by bit. And what’re you doing? Tying your flies and watching sunsets and drinking a few beers at the end of a long day. Just keeping your head down, ignoring it, pretending it isn’t happening. Letting somebody else fight the Huns.”

It was true. Thorn was keeping his head down. His past crusades had resulted in far too many casualties. Let someone else carry the banners. Someone with a clear conscience. At this moment all he wanted was to get Flynn safely home, nothing more.

“Maybe I was wrong about you. I thought you gave a damn. You stood up for what you believed. You were my hero. You were my conscience.”

He looked at her profile. And saw again the shy kid and her bucket of rotting shrimp donated by the local bait shop, her jerky casts, her sidelong looks at him, that wild, cock-eyed smile when she caught that first snapper.

She rose to her feet, motioned for him to follow, and led him down the spit of sand to the western edge of the basin. She pried apart the branches, turned sideways, and wriggled through a gap, Thorn staying close.

They ducked and wrestled for twenty yards through the dense web of limbs until they reached the rocky shore where the blue waters of Biscayne Bay spread before them. A mile offshore a catamaran was slicing south toward the Keys, and just beyond it, along the mainland coast, was the hulking nuclear plant, its twin cooling towers, its enormous concrete dome, its dozens of outbuildings sheathed in metal girders and scaffolding, the land stripped of vegetation, a barren industrial site, ugly and forbidding.

“Right here in one of the most beautiful, fragile landscapes in the world, every minute of every day, they’re sucking hundreds of thousands of gallons from the aquifer to cool the superheated steam, and inside those buildings there’s enough radioactive fuel to turn South Florida into a ghost town for the next thousand years. Billions of dollars already spent to scrape the land bare and build that monstrosity, billions more to double the size of the plant in the next few years.

“Plant’s forty years old, much older than it was designed to last, but the NRC just gave them a twenty-year extension. It’s crumbling, pipes are leaking, cracks in the concrete. They’re one accident away from catastrophe. I worked alongside those people for years. The workers know the plant’s unsafe, but they’re scared to complain. Last year there were dozens of anonymous tips from whistle-blowers about leaky valves and rusting seams, failed backup generators, but the regulators ignore them. Somebody has to put a stop to it.”

“Who are the people on this island? Wally and the others?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“It’s old, it’s crumbling, about to double in size. Yes, I heard you. Who are these people you’re involved with?”

“Average citizens like me, committed to the cause.”

“Who, Leslie?”

“We’re activists, part of something larger.”

“And how did you get involved?”

“Is that important?”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“They came to me. They knew I had access to the plant. They knew I was sympathetic to the cause.”

“Who came to you?”

“You’re interrogating me?”

“If you want my help, I have to know what’s going on.”

“A woman. She wanted me to meet some people. That was a while ago. I met them, listened, and little by little, I saw the importance of what they were doing, and together we developed a plan. Nobody forced me, nobody brainwashed me if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“The woman in your boat that day. Red hair.”

With a slow blink of her eyes she admitted he was correct.

“And shutting down Turkey Point, one plant out of hundreds. What does that accomplish?”

“You’ve heard of Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, Fukushima?”

Thorn nodded.

“After the meltdown at Three Mile Island, no nuke plants were built for decades. The other two reminded everyone how vulnerable they are, how dangerous. All it will take is one more disaster. Just one, and that’ll be the end of it. There’ll be no new plants, no more expansion. It’ll wind down. One more is all it’ll take. And the public won’t accept nuclear power ever again.”

“Disaster? You want to blow it up?”

“Shut it down.”

“And how do you accomplish that?”

She gave him a disappointed look, mouth tight, not going there.

“Chernobyl and the others, those were catastrophes, radiation spread for hundreds of miles around. That’s your goal?”

“No violence, no destruction.” She looked at him, then her eyes slid away as if she didn’t believe her own words.

“What’s the group that recruited you? They have a name?”

“It’s not Al Qaeda, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He asked her again for the name.

With a defiant flash in her eyes, she said, “Earth Liberation Front.”

It was one he’d heard of, though he couldn’t recall where. “They block whaling ships. Save baby seals.”

“That’s Greenpeace,” she said.

“Oh, you’re the guys that burn down Humvee dealers. Firebombers.”

“Crimes against property, yes. But nonviolent.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Break into Turkey Point, there’s heavy security, armed men. A pacifist doesn’t stand a chance. That’s a suicide mission.”

“We’ve got that covered. We’re not stupid.”

“And where’s the money?”

“What money?”

“Who gets rich on this crack-brained scheme?”

“It’s not about money.”

“It’s always about money.”

“Not this time. This is about caring. About doing what’s right.”

“Wally works for free? The tents, the solar panel, this whole setup. Who pays for all this?”

“Are you really that cynical, Thorn? Money drives everybody?”

“Why get Flynn involved?”

“He shared our goals.”

“A lot of people do. Why him? It was no coincidence.”

“You mean because he was your son? All right, yes. I read about him in the papers, searched him out. Being your son gave him an edge. I considered asking you as well. I considered it quite often.”

“Because you thought I was some kind of big-time outlaw.”

“I thought you were a man of strong principles. I still do.”

“Then you obviously don’t know who I am.”

She was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know who you are.”

Thorn turned his back on the water and the distant plant. His ribs ached and he could still feel a lingering pressure around his chest as if the python had crushed his torso into a new shape.

“You’re a man of great skills and resolve. You’ve been involved in some nasty business in the past, but kept your exploits off the record. I admire you, Thorn. I always thought you’d be a perfect fit, but I knew you’d fought a lot of battles lately so I kept my distance out of respect.”

“But you didn’t keep your distance from Flynn.”

Her face colored briefly and she looked away. “Flynn has many of your traits, Thorn. He’s a warrior. Not of your caliber perhaps, but he’s learning fast.”

“Listen to me, Leslie. I’m putting my boat back together. If I can’t fix that engine, by God I’ll dog-paddle back to the mainland. But I’m going home one way or the other. When I get back, you have my word I won’t call the cops or the press or anybody. You do what you have to do. Pull your prank, cripple the plant, make your big statement. Good luck with that. But I’m going back, and if Flynn wants to leave, too, he’s coming with me.”

Weariness was in her half smile. “I’m sorry but that’s not going to happen. You’re not going anywhere till this is done. We can’t take that risk. And Flynn isn’t going anywhere either.”

“So now we’re prisoners?”

“I didn’t invite you here, Thorn. You found your way on your own. But now that you’re here, we can’t let you leave.

“In a very short while we pull the plug. Everything’s going dark. It’ll stay dark for as long as we can manage to keep it that way. On the day we go in, Flynn will be with us a hundred percent, as he has been from the start. I’m confident of him. And maybe you’ll come on board, too. Give me a few days, I’ll change your mind.”

“I’m too old to be reeducated.”

“If you want to resume your way of life, if you want Flynn to have a future, you’ll come around. You have to. There’s no choice anymore.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“You have to understand something, Thorn. I don’t have the final say.”

“And who does?”

“We’re a democracy. The group will decide what to do with you.”

FOURTEEN

LEAVING THE BEACH, THORN LAGGED
a step behind Leslie, taking a glance at her flats boat, seeing no keys in the ignition. Maybe with a screwdriver and ten free minutes he could hot-wire it. More than once he’d lost his ignition key overboard and he knew the start-up drill on his own skiff, but wasn’t sure about the more advanced ignition system on the Whipray.

And he got a better look at the wooden rack where the kayaks were stored. Constructed with pressure-treated two-by-fours, the cage was bolted together and its lid was held shut by two impressive steel hinges mounted on each side. From each hinge dangled an equally impressive padlock.

Even the pry bar would be no match for that steel, but maybe he could break the hinges loose. Gouge that pine, splinter it enough to pry one free, jimmy the lid open a few inches to unload a couple of kayaks. Though now that he thought about it, he’d seen no paddles anywhere.

Another problem.

Inside the barracks tent Flynn was standing stiffly beside Cameron, Wally, and another guy, the four of them forming a ragged line, waiting for Leslie’s arrival. Behind them were six cots neatly made with sheets and pillows. Two weight benches stood nearby, along with a collection of barbells and dumbbells and stacks of heavy plates. Some backpacks lay in the corners, and by one of the bunks, oddly out of place, sat two aluminum attaché cases.

At the back of the tent a flimsy metal bookshelf was loaded with jugs of water. An ice chest with roller wheels was tucked in beside the bookshelf. A small sheet of plywood had been laid across some wooden crates to create a makeshift desk. On it sat a laptop computer attached to a mobile phone. A bright orange extension cord ran underneath the plywood desk and disappeared beneath the edge of the tent. No doubt the computer and the window fan that was agitating the air were powered by the solar assembly outside. All in all, a Spartan bivouac.

Inside the tent the air was maybe a degree or two cooler than out in the sun, but it was so saturated with sweat and body odor it was stifling.

“This is Thorn,” Leslie announced to the group. “He’s an old friend of mine and he’s Flynn’s father. He stumbled across our camp today, and he’s discovered the nature of our mission, so we can’t release him. I suggest we try to bring him on board. He’s a resourceful man. A fighter. We could use him.

“He’s not yet convinced of the worthiness of our cause, but I think we can persuade him in short order. I truly believe we can.”

She introduced the one man Thorn hadn’t met. Pauly Chee, Wally’s brother.

Pauly was shorter than Thorn by a couple of inches, shirtless, his exposed chest and stomach as slick and solidly molded as a slab of polished marble. His glossy black hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. He had a cinnamon complexion and a bold, hawkish nose, and his face was full of angles as if it had been whittled by the wind.

His large, dark eyes regarded Thorn with cold indifference, as though Pauly had sized him up in a split second and decided Thorn wasn’t worth further consideration.

Around his neck he wore a leather cord with a beaded medallion of green and white, and on his right wrist was a silver bracelet ornamented with oval turquoise stones. Thorn didn’t know much about Native American tribes, so he could only guess what this man’s ancestry might be. But the flavor of his medallion and bracelet and the broad face and harsh slash of his cheekbones hinted at one of those clans who centuries ago were driven over the Bering Strait by the last ice age and had trekked down into the new continent and settled in the deserts of the Southwest.

“Some last-minute asshole,” Wally said. “I don’t like it. No way.”

“I’m with Wally,” Cameron said. “I’ve spoken to him at length and found him to be an arrogant man. An untrustworthy wiseass. I don’t think he’s capable of becoming a member of any group, much less ours. I vote no.”

She drew a breath, gave Prince a disheartened look, and moved on. “All right, that’s two against. But let me make this clear. If we don’t accept Thorn in the group, we’ll have to make a hard choice how to proceed.”

“Slice his throat, dump his carcass at sea,” Wally said. “That’s not hard.”

“I vote yes,” Flynn said. Staring off at the sunlight slanting into the tent.

“And that’s my vote as well,” Leslie said. “So that leaves you, Pauly.”

“Vote no, Pauly. The guy’s a hairy-ass motherfucker.” Wally danced up to Thorn, threw a couple of phantom slaps at his face. “Pauly votes no.”