Nantucket Five-Spot (23 page)

He took a breath. No time like the present.

He unbuttoned his cuff, shook the Swiss Army knife free, and cut himself loose from the flex-cuffs, bending his wrist inward to awkwardly saw at the hard plastic. It took a few minutes. His wrists were raw and red from chafing against the ridged plastic. He closed the knife and slipped it into his pocket, stretched his fingers, wiggled them. He was okay.

Cautiously, he crept past the fireplace to the third floor stairs. He waited, listening, leaning on a newel post.

The house was silent. He started up the stairs. On the third floor he climbed the wooden steps that led up to the widow's walk. The hatch had no lock. It was just a hinged square set into a square hole, meant for quick access in the event of a roof fire. Securing it would be difficult—and pointless, unless you were trying to protect your house from aerial assault by paratroopers.

Haden pushed with his shoulders and the slab moved up and tilted back to rest against the rail of the widow's walk. In a second he was on the roof deck, with a spectacular view of the Sound and the dunes. The gentle breeze touched his face, summoning a violent protective surge of love for this place, his place, his home.

Good, use it, he admonished himself. Get over this railing. Slide down the roof and climb down to the ground using the rose trellis. But the pitch was steep. Haden eased over the rail, let himself down, and his feet touched the wood shingles. Ideally he'd be wearing grippy rubber-soled sneakers on asphalt shingles. Leather uniform shoes on slippery cedar shakes? He'd skid like a car on black ice.

It was possible, though. The flat roof of one of the dormers began ten feet down. If he could stretch out flat, holding onto one of the platform's supports, the slide would only be a few feet. If the steep slope below him were sitting on the ground he could do it without a second thought. Right, because one mistake wouldn't kill him.

He took a breath and swung one leg over the rail, then the other one. Now his toes were pushed up against the spindles, resting on less than an inch of wood. He grasped the rail and leaned out a little, feeling the vertigo smother him. He had to step down onto the roof. It was no more than three feet below him, but he couldn't seem to reach it. His leg was dangling in midair. He bent the other knee, grabbed a spindle and eased himself lower. Where the hell was the roof? His shoulders started to cramp. He felt the first cold tentacles of panic curl around him. He refused to look down. That was what they always told you—don't look down. Great advice—until you actually needed to see something.

Finally, his foot touched the steep surface. Halfway there. He pushed hard with the sole of his shoe against the cedar shakes as he dropped the other leg. Then he was standing on the slippery pitch, gripping the widow's walk fence with both hands. Nothing to it! But the hard part was still ahead of him.

He gripped the spindles and started shuffling his feet down the slope. Immediately, they skidded out from under him. A scream rose in his throat, and he gagged to keep it in. This was like walking on wet marble—no traction at all.

It was impossible.

No, no, it could be done, he had to do it. Just breathe. He could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his throat like a wound. He went down on one knee, holding on to the end-boards of the decking and then the post that supported it. Another knee down as he inched hand over hand to the bottom of the post. He knees were taking his full weight, pressed to the ridged incline.

This was it. Now he had to stretch himself out flat and slide to the dormer roof. It couldn't be far, at the full extension of his body—maybe two or three feet, tops. Easy.

All he had to do was let go.

He took a breath, stretched out, released his grip on the splintery post, and let himself slide. Stomach churning seconds of slipping down the slick cedar…out of control…accelerating—then his feet touched the dormer roof. He took a moment to grab his breath and let his heart rate finally subside.

He slowly stretched up to his feet, turned, and gripped the edge of the dormer, haltingly shuffling backwards down toward the precipice of the main roof. That took him to a foot from the lethal thirty-foot drop. He edged around the corner, clinging onto the front of the dormer now, his back to the precipice. There was a tiny vertical gap between the storm window screen and the runner. He inched down, one hand still clutching the shingle at chest level. Was aluminum solid? Could he put all his weight on it and bring his other hand down, or would the thin, stripped screws pull loose and send him catapulting out into the vacant air?

Gulp and grip. He remained perched there, muscles locked onto the storm window frame by the fingertips of both hands.

Once more he lowered himself to his knees. This time, his toes extended over the edge of the roof. His foot pushed into the lattice and he exhaled.

He released one hand, stretched his arm down along his side. Of course, he couldn't reach the gutter. His hand brushed the rough grain of the third course of shingles from the brink. Not even close. Could he let go with the other hand? Hanging loose, attached to nothing, holding onto nothing, skittering over a hard rim into empty space. A few stomach-lifting seconds of free fall, then the shattering impact. Even if he survived, he'd be crippled for life. Nausea swam through him, schools of sluggish fish through dirty water.

Worse, he knew he didn't have the strength to pull himself back up. He'd just lie here on the warm ridges of resinous wood until he lost his grip and…

That was it. That was what he had to do. He had to work his feet out of the lattice and let go, snatch the gutter as he fell. He wouldn't have built up too much momentum, and as soon as he got a handhold he could jam his toes back hard into the lattice again…and climb down—if the lattice didn't tear off the wall. He had nailed his share of these trellises up when he was a kid, working for carpenters on summer vacations.

The nails were small. The setup was flimsy.

He was going to fall anyway if he waited much longer.

He gritted his teeth and let go.

It happened so fast it was as if it didn't happen at all. One second he sledded down, lurching off into the gulf of air. Next second the gutter bit into his palms and pain stabbed into his shoulders and he hung free, legs hitting the lattice, thorns biting him through his pants.

He dug his toes between the crisscrossed strapping and started down. Roses were blooming, perfuming the summer air. Stop and smell the roses? Some other time. He actually laughed out loud, more a nervous grunt of sheer physical relief than any actual amusement at his lame joke. Everyone hated his stupid jokes.

Fifteen feet above the ground, the lattice gave out. He heard a tearing sound and scuttled down for one more foot hold before he twisted around and jumped, landing face-first in a hydrangea bush. He struggled out of it, taking inventory of cuts and scratches, but otherwise okay.

He took a few deep breaths, loosening his muscles, looking up at the trellis above him, which leaned crazily away from the house. Scrambling out of the bushes, he stood up. Solid ground. Safe. He had made it. Now get back to Cliff Road, hitch into town, use the driver's cell phone to call the chief, and turn himself in again…

Ezekiel Beaumont stood three feet away from him with a taser gun in his hand.

Zeke applauded delicately, tapping his fingers on the heel of his hand. “Fantastic! That was a great show, Lieutenant. I wish I had it on video. It would definitely go viral. You'd get more hits than those Hitler cats. Well, I'd love to stay and chat. But we have a big night ahead of us and now it's time for me to live out one of my most cherished dreams—tasering a cop.”

Before Haden could react, the conductive wires leapt out, the barbs dug into his shirt, and the voltage whipped through him.

He had time for one thought before he blacked out: He'd failed again.

Chapter Nineteen

Fugitives

They took me back to my own station house, walked me through to the holding cells from the garage, photographed me, fingerprinted me, and shoved me in one of my own cells. I glanced at the metal phone plate set into the wall. No way anyone would let me use it. No lawyer was coming to see me. I was totally cut off from the outside world. No one but Brad Pinckley at the booking desk even knew I'd been arrested. It was Miranda's night with the kids, though I was supposed to pick them up and take them to camp tomorrow morning.

Tornovitch came to see me, flanked by Daly and Knightley.

“Can you at least tell my family what happened?” I asked him. “They're going to start worrying tomorrow morning.”

Jack grinned. “That's what all the terrorists say.”

“I know what you're doing, Jack.”

“Do you? Why don't you tell these law enforcement professionals then, Kennis? Share whatever outrageous story you've cooked up with them. They'll be taking notes for your slander trial.”

Daly and Knightley looked at me like a sick monkey in some crumbling midwestern zoo. At least the chimp could throw his shit at them.

“I want to see my lawyer.”

“Sure, Kennis. After the Pops concert.”

“I'm going to stop you.”

Jack laughed. “Are you talking to yourself now? Because that's a red flag for mental instability.”

He followed the others out the door. They had taken my watch, wallet, and cell phone. No way of knowing the time. No television, no books, no magazines. Nothing to do but brood.

I had plenty to brood about. No one else in the NPD could possibly stumble on the tortured path of conjecture Franny and I had followed. No one in the JTTF would even be looking. Franny was still free, but coming to my defense would only get her thrown into a cell in the women's block. We had almost everything needed to take a case to court—a time line and a chain of causality, a motive and a plan, even a suspect. What we didn't have was proof, and Jack knew it.

I gave up on thinking. Whatever happened next, being well rested could tip the odds in my favor. I slept a deep hungry dreamless sleep on the hard cement that night, using my clothes for a pillow.

I woke up stiff, sore, and ravenous. No breakfast. No one came in at all. Lunchtime came and went. The orders were obviously to leave me alone. I paced the cell, went through sets of calisthenics and breathing exercises. Finally, I settled back on the slab to wait.

I'd been waiting there for most of the day when I heard Franny's voice outside the door, bits and pieces of a conversation. “Special detention,” “heightened security,” “enemy combatant protocols.” Knightley answered, but his voice was pitched too low. I couldn't make out anything he said.

Finally the door opened.

“—and let's try to get this done quickly. Jack wants him out of here before the press conference.”

“He didn't mention any press conference, Agent Tate, and I don't—”

“It's on a need to know basis, Knightley. I don't think he plans on having you talk to the press. Or would you like that? I can put in a word with him.”

“No, no—it's just…I wasn't notified.”

She stopped walking and cocked her head at him with a small quizzical smile that wondered, ‘Is it possible? Can you actually be this stupid?' She said, “Consider yourself notified.”

“Should he be cuffed?”

Franny produced a pair. “Unlock it and step back.”

Knightley unlocked the cell and pulled it open. I moved into the narrow corridor and held out my arms. Franny snapped the cuffs on.

“Which vehicle will we be using for transport?” Knightley asked.

“I'll grab anything that's available. But I'm taking him alone.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“I can handle it, Knightley.”

“But it's not procedure. I'm going to have to check with Jack.”

“Fine.” She glanced at her watch. “Just be quick.”

He pulled out his cell, turned his back, and took a few steps away to give himself the illusion of privacy. He was standing that way—with most of his weight on his right leg—when Franny attacked.

She drove a kick into the back of his right knee. He dropped the phone with a grunt and pitched backward. Franny caught him in a classic choke hold, forearm across his neck, yanking her own wrist with the other hand to cut off the circulation. It was swift and brutal. In less than five seconds, Knightley was unconscious on the floor. I gaped at her efficiency.

She pushed the handcuff key into my palm. “Let's go.”

She opened the door and yanked me out, walked me across the booking room to a side door, nodding to Pinckley.

“Everything okay, Agent Tate?” he asked.

“We're running behind. When Knightley gets out of the bathroom tell him to meet me there.”

Then we were outside in the dense heat of the late afternoon, walking past the big reserve oil tanks and into the green-fenced security parking lot. “Sorry this took so long. Jack had me running security at the airport all day. I just found out what happened.”

“Franny, what are you doing?”

“What I can, Hank. The only thing I can.”

“You attacked a federal officer and aided and abetted a prisoner escape. Franny! Look at me. You just flushed your career down the toilet.”

“If we're wrong, that's the least of what I did. But we're right. And I—shit.”

I followed her eyes. Jack's Expedition was skidding into the lot.

“Knightley must have hit speed dial.”

Jack and Agent Daly piled out of the car. They both had their guns out.

“Franny, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm transporting the prisoner to a more secure location.”

“Nice try. But this is the only secure location on Nantucket. He's going back into his cell and you're under arrest. Step away from him.”

Jack hadn't used a gun in a long time, and he was at least a decade away from his last training course. He forgot the primary rule for controlling a suspect at gunpoint: keep your distance. Maybe he didn't think Franny was dangerous enough to be worth treating with caution. But he hadn't seen her in the detainment room with Knightley.

Franny stamped down hard on his instep, drove her shoulder into his solar plexus and twisted the gun out of his hand. The attack distracted Daly for a second, and I tackled him. We landed hard on the asphalt and his gun clattered away. We struggled briefly, but he had sixty pounds on me and my hands were cuffed. He rolled onto my chest, his fist pulled back for a punch, when Franny's voice froze him.

“Flat on the ground, both of you,” she said. “Now.”

Daly eased himself off me and lay down next to Jack. I scrambled to my feet. I was winded, but I had landed on top of the big FBI agent, which cushioned the fall. I scanned the building. No one was running out here, no shots had been fired. Someone would notice the ruckus in the parking lot.

“Go,” Franny said. “I'll cover for you.”

“Franny—”

“It's your island, Hank. Save it. You're the only one who can. “

I took off. I considered stealing Jack's SUV for the space of a few steps—the motor was still running. But my chances were better moving overland on foot. Within half an hour, state and local police, FBI and National Guard units would be patrolling every road and street on the island. I had to get under cover fast and formulate a plan. I clambered over the chain link fence beyond the concrete apron and made my way behind the businesses that fronted on Old South Road. I scrambled over fences and clattered through backyards, construction sites and parking lots. I stood listening for a moment or two, catching my breath. No shots, alarms or sirens, so far.

I lurched forward again. I was running hard when I almost fell into a trench Toscana was digging for a new sewer line. I managed to jump it but that slammed me into a dense hedge with a wood barrier on the other side. I grabbed the coarse bushes to regain my balance. There was no way through. I took a few seconds to unlock the handcuffs, threw them into the open trench, and headed for the street.

I was in plain sight then, clothes torn, bleeding from my hands and scalp, panting. I was about as hard to miss as a snapping turtle on a shell driveway, and I wasn't moving much faster at that point. A couple of cars had already slowed down to get a good look at me. Gossip traveled fast. The police chief was stumbling toward the airport, looking—as my mother-in-law loved to say—“Like he was dragged through a knothole sideways.”

I was about to make a break for the other side of the road when a red Ford 150 pulled over. The driver honked twice and craned his head out the window. Pat Folger.

“Climb in, Chief,” he called out. I sprinted to the truck. When I was inside and he was accelerating into traffic again, he took a good look at me and said, “Christ on a cracker! What the hell happened?”

I was still catching my breath. We slowed down behind a line of cars.

“It's a bomb, ain't it?”

We crawled forward.

“Yeah. You're going to hear that I had something to do with this, that I helped Haden Krakauer escape, but—”

He cut me off with a laugh that turned into a wheeze. “Sorry, Chief. That goddamn cedar's killing me. But you can't use the shitty pine they sell any more, so you're screwed either way.” He grabbed a tissue off the center console and blew his nose. “So what are you asking? Will I buy their bullshit and turn you in? Forget about it. I may look stupid but we know better.”

“How's Rick doing?” I asked him.

“Good, he's doing good. He knows antiques. And he got his business sense from me.”

“How about Doug?”

“One day at a time, right? I just wish he'd get off this goddamn island. It's tough for the kids here, Chief. I'm telling ya. But at least you nailed those Bulgarian shitbags. Every little bit helps.”

We drove through the intersection, and I directed him to turn in at the
Shoals
parking lot. It was my best solution to the immediate problem of getting off the street. David Trezize would hide me. He had computers and telephones, so I could contact my family and keep up with what was happening. He even had pals on the force. He tried to keep his sources secret, but it was a small town, and he was Barnaby Toll's godfather.

I climbed out of the truck.

“Thanks, Pat.”

He wagged a finger at me. “Go catch these assholes. That's what we pay you for.”

Then he backed into a two point turn and took off.

I was lucky. The office was deserted in the late afternoon. But David would be there. He was always there.

The ground floor of the small building held the advertising and circulation departments. There were no presses. The paper was printed off-island. Downstairs, David had converted the basement into a brightly-lit office space with five desks, a microwave, a mini fridge and a two burner electric hot plate. David was on the floor fiddling with the tangle of computer wiring behind one of the desktop monitors when I came down the stairs and knocked on the door.

“Come in, Chief,” he called. “And tell me—why are you suddenly public enemy number one around here?”

I went into the cramped little bathroom and scrubbed the blood off my head, washed my hands and dried off. David was waiting with a mug of coffee when I got out.

“Fresh pot,” he said. “Jamaica Blue Mountain. Chemex. The coffee nerd's holy grail.”

I took a sip. The coffee was strong but not bitter.

“So tell me the story. It can be off the record. I just want to know what's going on.”

Small and pudgy, he looked like an alert otter behind his thick glasses. I felt like a fish in a stream, waiting for him to pounce.

“I'll be happy to talk on the record when this thing is over.”

“And when will that be?”

I looked at the big clock on the wall above the Xerox machine. It was just before four thirty in the afternoon. The concert started at seven. The fireworks were scheduled for eight thirty, to coincide with the William Tell Overture finale.

“Around four hours from now,” I said.

He poured himself a mug of coffee, and swung his arm with it inclusively, as if he was showing me the office for the first time. “Look at this place, Chief. Here I have this amazingly efficient little news organization, single handed, in a place where
nothing newsworthy ever happens
! And what am I doing? The biggest story I'm following now is this Eastern European prostitution ring. Can you believe that? You know how the girls signify they're available? They sit at a bar drinking scotch on the rocks or a martini—through a straw. That's the code. That's how the johns find them. Little details like that make my life worthwhile. Chief? Hello? Anyone in there?”

I was staring past him seeing that tall blond guy at Cru the night of the first bombing, laughing with some gorgeous blonde, her scotch on the rocks through a straw. That guy was Zeke Beaumont. Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Now I knew how he'd found his little hit squad to attack me at the golf course jobsite. The Bulgarians were a full service operation.

I turned back to David. “When this is over I'll give you an exclusive, David. But I'm running out of time, and right now I don't have a clue.”

I sat down in front of one of the computers, thinking about Tornovitch and Beaumont. I kept coming back to the military connection.

How would a military assault on the area work? An artillery barrage to cover an amphibian landing. But you'd need a mercenary army for that, not to mention landing craft and some serious air cover. Haden had told me he saw someone selling a rebuilt World War II DUCK on e-Bay. Could these guys have gotten their hands on an Air Force surplus bomber, too?

No, they didn't have that kind of money. They weren't pilots. They weren't mechanics, either. I was way off track. I went back. Something in that aerial train of thought resonated. Beaumont's behavior at the AIDS benefit had convinced me he was a veteran—that rant about the fireworks, the way they simulated an actual attack.