3 Lies (22 page)

Green neon flashed at a tavern named The Happy Clam, beckoning him to taste another malted-barley concoction. Clint rumbled up to a parking space away from the road. Smokers aggregated in various spots around the building. Clint entered by the front door. The lubricated regulars of the seedy watering hole didn’t break from their drinks when he took a seat at the bar.

“What’ll you have?”

Clint wiped his chin with his forearm. “Draft. Any kind.”

The bartender pulled a tall one for him. Clint put a five on the bar and drank half the beer. He asked for directions to a pay phone.

Back of the bar. Naturally.

He downed the rest of his beer to hush his singing nerves and left to find the phone. He pecked a quarter at the coin slot before remembering the new phone on his hip. He punched in Merlin’s number.

A woman in a flowered dress, tipsy-past-the-fulcrum, followed him, ostensibly to reach the bathroom. Her gait slowed as she neared him, one foot planting with determination in front of the other, an unsteady sentry upon the parapet. She stumbled briefly, regaining a precarious position on her stilettos. Her slow-motion smile intended to entice, and she mouthed the word ‘Hello’ as she sidled past him, leaving a miasma of mentholated tequila to assault his senses.

“Merlin. It’s Clint. Are you at the marina?”

“Are you all right?”

The drunken woman reentered the hallway. “Are you? You know. That satellite guy?”

Clint tried to commune with the wall, but she lingered in front of him. “No. I get that all the time. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Her lips retreated from the smile, and she slinked into the bar.

“Merlin? I need a big favor, man. Can you take my boat to Whalers Marina? I’ll meet you there.”

Merlin paused on the other end. “I get the impression that questions would be inconvenient.”

“Perceptive as ever. Louie’s on board.” He waited for the woman to rejoin the barflies. “I keep a spare key in a pocket on his collar.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“The slip is on the fifth dock to the right after you enter the breakwater. It’s the last one leeward side. E-24”

“I can be there in about two hours depending on the wind. Will that work?”

“More than you know.”

Merlin’s help assured, Clint left a piece of his angst in the dark hallway of the bar.

~

With two hours to kill, Clint hit a grocery store to pick up some supplies. The only staple in abundance on the
No Moor
was alcohol. He pulled a shopping cart from the end of the queue, but with each revolution the left rear wheel made a ka-thap sound that he decided not to invite along for the rest of his trip. He swapped carts and gave it a quick test push.

He wondered what, or if, Beth was eating that night. He remembered making her favorite meal a couple of times, pasta with homemade red sauce and clams. She twirled the angel hair around her fork like a swarthy native of the Boot. He found that recipe specifically for her. He couldn’t remember ever cooking for Paige. He paid for his three-bags-full and drove to the Whalers Marina.

He stayed under the speed limit and traveled every back road he could find en route. He left the truck under a tree and hauled his groceries out to the end of the dock. Twenty minutes later, a silhouette of his ship appeared outside the jetty.

Merlin weaved his way through the boats moored in the harbor and lowered the sail. The harbor lights cast a hopeful glow across the shimmering waters. At first sight of Clint, Louie pranced on the deck in a full-motion wag. Clint hadn’t realized how much he missed that friendly face of fur.

Watching Merlin guide his boat to the dock reminded him why he bought her in the first place. Even in the stingy light she was a stunning ketch, white with an emerald necklace topside. A sigh left him without permission.

Merlin cut the motor, and the
No Moor
inched into the slip. Louie paced the deck waiting for a stable moment to leap off the boat. Clint put down his grocery bags, and Merlin threw him the portside dock rope. The boat’s momentum kept it floating gently into the berth. Clint walked alongside and tied a bowline, dropping the loop over the port piling. Merlin knotted the starboard-side rope and gave it to Clint to lasso the other piling. The boat bobbed to a stop.

Louie scrambled to him. They nosed each other, and he ruffled both of the dog’s long ears. Louie’s muscular body pushed into his master for added contact.

Clint didn’t look up from the lab’s glossy eyes. “Thanks, Merlin. For everything.” The dog pressed into his leg and sat on his shoe. “Louie, old man. Did you take care of Merlin?”

Merlin tidied the mainsail, now still in the harbor calm. “That pooch of yours was pining for you. I gave him a quick run before we left. Mind, he was quite unsettled about me taking his house for a sail without you.”

Clint pulled his foot out from under Louie. He got his groceries and climbed aboard, setting them down near the companionway. Louie gave the grocery bags a thorough olfactory inspection. While Merlin put the mainsail to bed, Clint secured the jib to the mast and zipped it inside the canvas cover. With the boat tidied, they stepped below deck.

“You hungry?” Clint shoved his bags to the back of the counter.

“No.” Merlin wound his way to the dinette table. “But I’ll have a go at a cold pint.”

Clint took a couple of beers out of the fridge. Louie paced the floor until Clint took a seat, then he fell asleep at his feet.

Clint finished half a beer before he spoke. “How much do you want to know?”

“As little as possible.”

Restraint. A refreshing quality in a man. “Aren’t you curious?”

Merlin slouched. “Yes, but probably not in the way you might imagine.”

“Now I’m curious. Ask at will.”

He settled in his seat as if expecting a lengthy show. He laced his fingers and laid them on his lap. “You made a fortune in high-tech. Why do you now disdain it so?”

“Disdain. Is that how you see it?”

“You can have any comfort you want, and at my age comfort counts for a bit, yet you’ve gone all sixteenth century. It’s a wonder you didn’t head for the hills.”

Clint laughed. “I actually considered that. I figured I’d last about as long as the food I packed with me.”

“But why? What have you gained from it?”

Damn good question. He’d sworn off high-tech. No television. No microwave. No internet. No cell phone tumor on his hip. He patted the one there now. The truth was, he couldn’t fully leave it all behind. He still drove, used pay phones, flushed toilets. His original clarity of purpose in taking this oath muddied like spring run-off. He flailed for an answer.

The boat swayed slightly, lulling Louie into a soft snuffle at Clint’s feet. Clint lay on the settee, putting his arms behind his head for support. “I’ve never worked for any other company. I did a variety of jobs growing up, but Todd and I founded CatSat Laboratories before we even graduated from college.”

“Impressive.”

“I thought so too.”

“Where did the name CatSat come from? The stealthy manner in which you download instructions?”

“Yeah, that. Plus, C. A. T. You know. Clint. And. Todd.” He shrugged, palms turning upward. “CatSat. I admit it. We thought we were hot shit. It was an undiluted adrenalin rush. We came up with the CatSat idea at a frat-house kegger. I don’t even remember what sparked it, the idea, but Todd and I worked in—” He looked up, searching for the right words. “—like a thought bubble. All this revelry, but time seemed to bend around us. Until the cops shut down the party.” He downed the rest of his beer.

“We theorized about an unknown bandwidth that doesn’t slow the existing traffic, and later I found it. We could piggyback a transmission on an existing GPS signal. We didn’t even need to put up our own satellite. By the next morning, I had a significant chunk of the code logic diagrammed, and Todd had the skeletal works of a solid business plan.”

Merlin reached down to scratch Louie’s flank. “What exactly does CatSat do?”

“Essentially we update backbone programming, en masse, to products via satellite. Any product or machinery tagged with our chip, we can update software, modify programming, add features, disable unpaid features. It’s much cheaper for companies to pay us than to service these units individually. But Todd’s the reason we’re a household name. We can stop vehicles fleeing from law enforcement, and it was his idea to run these police requests for free. Otherwise, we’d just operate in the background."

“Heady stuff, mate. How old were you?”

“Todd and I were both twenty-one. We got our first round of venture capital within three months of that party. Twenty-one million dollars. Todd insisted on that amount.” He felt a smile tighten across his face. “For the next five years, I only came home to check my mail.” His arms strapped his chest. “I was one bad-ass, living and dying start-up. Each day I focused my whole being toward a singular goal.” He remembered the day their stock went public. He punched the air. “IPO, man. Initial public offering. We were going to be legends.”

“The Brain and Mr. Flash. And so it was.”

“Like Mark Antony and Octavian, we conquered the world then divided it. I was CTO and took R&D, manufacturing, engineering, quality.” He counted each department on a different finger. “Every department necessary to produce the chips, develop products, send transmissions. Though Todd and I control the transmissions jointly. Todd ran everything else in the company. Running transmissions is the only official duty I have left.”

He pulled his knees up to his chest. Louie moaned on the floor.

“Todd was unbelievable. He worked the media like a third-term senator. He kept our name in the news so often that PR firms used to call us to find out which of their competitors we used. The VC guys loved him. Every drop of printer’s ink was another blast for potential investors. And the women he dated splashed us onto pages other than the business section.” Clint hitched up his cheek. “Of course only a portion of his appetite for starlets came from his romance with the press.”

Merlin lifted an empty bottle in cheers and went off to the fridge for another. “Obviously the stock-buying-public was happy with your partnership.”

“When the IPO hit, our stock fevered. It even triggered what’s known as a ‘Green Shoe’ option. That let us increase the amount of stock issued by another fifteen percent. The IPO made us multimillionaires within hours.” The memory magnified his exhale. Even after the IPO, the markets clamored for nearly everything they developed. Energy, drive, and a cosmic sense of purpose kept him airborne like a tern on a thermal.

A cold beer bottle slipped into his sweaty palm. It broke the magic spell.

“I can’t imagine heroin is any more addictive.”

Merlin gestured toward the boat. “How’d you get here?”

Clint trained his sleeves back to the elbows. “Paige. My soon-to-be-ex-wife.” His thoughts lit on the paternity test. Maybe a baby. “Whatever the hell she is, Paige and I dated forever and finally got married. Between my career and hers, we lost any reason to stay together.” It was a lie. It tasted like a lie when it came out of his mouth, but it sounded better than saying his wife of nine years up and dumped his ass. Especially when he still didn’t know why.

“The day I got the divorce papers, I decided a divorce was exactly what I needed. From her. From work. From the plugged-in world.” He reached down to pat Louie’s firm belly. “I stayed home that day and surfed the net for a boat. I found the
No Moor
—” He patted the teak wall. “—on eBay down in Newport News.” He felt a smile bud. “I flew down to pick her up and set sail for Boston equipped with a one-week sailing course from my college days. I figured if I didn’t fatten up a shark en route, it was a sign. When I got back, I quit my job and vowed to live low-tech for a year. Anything electronic I gave to my old assistant. Come to think of it, she sold most of it on eBay.”

Merlin seemed to absorb the story as if it were what he’d expected. Another wayfarer adrift in the current with another unique set of circumstances. Technology-magnate-masquerading-as-seadog? That’s him on the end.

Merlin had no apparent expectations of him, unlike everyone else in Clint’s life.

Save Beth.

With her, he was a face-value commodity. She didn’t treat him like he was ore waiting to be mined and wanted nothing from him other than his company. Women like the one at the medical supply store or the drunk at the bar pretended to find him fascinating because he was wealthy. He could torture invalids, slaughter kittens, or use singing bluebirds for target practice and still scare up a date for the weekend.

An ache in his chest spread like a crack. He downed his beer and swung his feet back to the floor. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Absolutely. But, I’d wager you have more pressing matters.”

“I need your help. My girlfriend—” The title lacked sufficiency. “—was kidnapped.” He stood. “Her uncle is Chief Justice Melinger of the Supreme Court.”

Wryness crested on Merlin’s face as he stared up at Clint, but it sank like a wave in the sand. “I’m sorry. You’re serious.”

“Have you heard any news about him?”

“The Chief Justice?”

Clint nodded.

“No. Why?”

“He got a restraining order on me.” Bile climbed hand-over-fist from his belly. “He had a heart attack. There may be a warrant out for me. I don’t know if he’s even alive.”

“I haven’t heard otherwise if that helps.”

“I’ve no right to involve you.”

“Tell me only what’s necessary.” Merlin seemed to inspect his shoes. Worn leather deck shoes with whitish soles, he squared his feet to Louie’s elongated body. “Plausible deniability.” He lifted his head to Clint’s. The lines in his face gathered. “That’s what I want. No warrant so far, right?”

“None that I know of.”

“Broken any laws?”

“Only pissing off the wrong guy.”

“Then I’m in, mate, for anything short of murder.”

Clint and Louie watched from the beach as Merlin drove a gleaming black Charger into the parking lot of Whalers Marina. With Abe’s target on his back, Clint didn’t want to make it any easier by driving his truck. As agreed the night before, Merlin drove Clint’s pickup to the central parking lot at Logan International Airport, left it near Terminal A, and then took a courtesy shuttle to the car rental lots. Merlin had expressed concern that his emergency credit card—acquired to reassemble his shattered credit— might not justify the rental of a new vehicle. Now he beamed at Clint from behind the wheel. Apparently, no one at the rental counter debated the merits of his $750 credit limit.