Nantucket Five-Spot (3 page)

“How stupid do I look now, fuck face?”

Zeke could barely open his mouth to talk. “About the same,” he managed to say. “But there's three of you.”

Dooley grunted and drove his knee up into Zeke's groin. The flat glassy wave of pain raced through him like voltage.

The next punch ended it.

Zeke woke up in the brig emergency ward, his nose bandaged, his ribs taped, and his jaw wired shut. It was day time, that was all he could tell. They had him on some powerful painkiller, probably oxycodone. He had no idea if it was a day or a week after the attack and he didn't care. He was high as a kite, being fed through a tube and drained through a catheter. It was the perfect life style for a lazy shit.

He faded again and when he came to, Boatswain's Mate 2nd Class Brad Liddell was staring down at him.

“Good news, Beaumont,” he smiled, showing his oversized teeth. “Dooley and his pals shipped to Leavenworth yesterday. They were caught in the act, committing felony assault on a fellow prisoner. Open and shut. It added five years to their sentences and that's an automatic transfer. So you're OK. You pulled it off. Good for you. Funny thing is, no one could quite figure out how the guards who broke things up happened to be in D block at that time of night. They were normally assigned to the northeast perimeter detail at that hour. But they got new orders that very afternoon! What a coincidence. Some people think there's a glitch in the computer. I know it's true. I even have proof. It's you, Beaumont. Am I getting through there? You're the glitch in the computer. I'm no alpha geek, but I was good enough to hang a bag on the side of that little worm you wrote. I was stuck for a while. I had to reboot twice. But I nailed it finally.”

The terminology penetrated the drug haze. There was another hacker at Miramar. Suddenly, he felt sea-sick, as if the bed was floating in deep water, rocked by groundswells, about to tip over. He closed his eyes but that made it worse. He opened them again. The kid was grinning down at him.

This was bad. If Liddell turned him in, they'd transfer him to Leavenworth, too, and Dooley would be waiting. Actually, that would be the good part—a familiar face. He knew he couldn't survive there.

He tried to talk—was he going to beg or bargain? It didn't matter; nothing came out.

Liddell held up a hand.

“Don't bother, Beaumont. I'll do the talking. And I'll make it short since I'm not even supposed to be in here. How about this? You're mine now. Whatever I want you to do, you do it. Whatever I need, you get it. Sometimes I just need to hit someone. Sometimes I need other things. I may keep you to myself and I may rent you out. All you have to do is keep me happy. Me and my friends. Think about that while your jaw heals. Look for me when you get out of here. Because I'll find you if you don't.”

He squeezed the oxygen tube until Zeke's eyes bulged. Then he was gone. Zeke started to fade again after that, but his last thoughts were of Kuwait and his commanding officer, his great friend with the sure-fire deal to keep Zeke out of prison. His true comrade who never even showed up at the court-martial.

There was going to be a day of reckoning for that Judas. It would be intricate and cruel and Zeke knew exactly how to do it. The fool talked too much when he was drunk. Planning it would be logistically complex, but so what. It would take time, but that was okay. Zeke had all the time in the world.

When he finally fell asleep, he was smiling.

Chapter Two

A Person of Interest

I hit the rewind button, held it down for a few seconds and then released it, exactly at the start of the message. The voice resonated through a distortion box, an electronic baritone. “I'm going to bomb the Pops concert. I'm taking out the ruling class of America and there's no way you can stop me. Sell your little houses soon, because this island is finished. I'm going to turn it into a ghost town. Think about that future. I'm going to start it with a bang.”

I pushed the off-switch. Haden Krakauer stared at me. “Do we have to hear it again?” I could smell the familiar tang of Halls menthol cough drops on his breath, and under it the faint hint of vodka. Haden, Haden, I thought. Get it together. He had been doing so well.

“Not right now,” I said. “Tell me what you think. Some kind of prank?”

“Maybe. I hope so. But I doubt it. “

A small group of cops had gathered around the big table in the upstairs conference room. Detectives Kyle Donnelly and Charlie Boyce hovered at my shoulders, crowded by some uniforms and even a couple of summer specials. Randy Ray stood in the back with Barnaby Toll, who was supposed to be on dispatch.

News traveled fast at the Nantucket Police Station. Sometimes the place seemed like a bad Disney movie from the fifties, with me starring as the harried single dad trying to manage a house full of orphans. What hijinks would these adorable scamps get up to next? I had a pretty good idea, in this case. I could feel them reaching for their cell phones.

I faced the group. “The information on the tape stays in this room. Tell no one. If the news gets out, I'll know one of you was responsible. Are you listening to me, Barnaby?”

Toll looked up nervously. “What? What did I do?”

“You left your post to see what all the excitement was about. Go back. And don't talk about this to anyone. Including your girlfriend.”

Barnaby left and the group dispersed. Randy Ray stopped on his way out. “They're gonna send some heavy hitters in here on this one, boss,” he said. “FBI, NSA, DHS—don't let 'em push you around. My dad always told me, there ain't nothing nobody can do to you, if you don't let them push you around.”

Haden grunted. He had a language snob's distaste for double negatives. Or was this a quadruple? I didn't feel like untangling it. “I think we'll manage somehow,” I told Randy.

When I was alone with Haden and the detectives, I looked around the big handsome room with its flat screen TVs, banks of laptop computers, and sun-filled windows. I felt like a bachelor who had impulsively cleaned his house before a surprise visit from his girlfriend. I wouldn't have wanted the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security poking around the old police station. It had been cramped and shabby, smelling vaguely of rotting wood, burned coffee and mildew. The new building was substantial, professional. Still, I felt a flicker of dread. Randy was right—we were going to be overrun, and I was about to set the whole process in motion. I had no choice.

I turned to Haden. “Get Lonnie Fraker on the phone.”

“Wait a second, Chief. Why do the State Police—”

“They have to be notified. So does the FBI. And Homeland Security. This recording has to be viewed as a terrorist threat. There was a detailed memo on this from the DHS in my files when I first got here. Did anyone ever read it?”

Kyle and Charlie studied their shoes.

Haden said, “I did. It was fifteen pages of in-the-event-of-an emergency-shut-up-and-cooperate-with-the-JTTF. That's the Joint Terrorism Task Force—Homeland, the FBI, the Coast Guard, the CIA, the National Guard, FEMA…basically everybody but us. I got together with Chief Bradley and we told everyone the gist of it. It was all bureaucratic jargon and frankly it didn't seem relevant. What do we have here? A whaling museum? We're not exactly a prime target.”

I nodded. “That's true, ten months a year. But we're talking about July and August. For those eight weeks this island turns into a Core Priority Terrorist Activity Location, according to the Homeland Security memo. It makes sense. The stock market crashes when the Fed hints that the recovery might take a few more years. What do you think it will do when fifty CEOs are killed in one night? Not to mention John and Theresa Kerry, Colin Powell, Joe Biden, Governor Patrick, and God knows who else?”

“So what do we do?” asked Donnelly. “Cancel the concert?”

I stared him down. “No, Kyle, we do not cancel the concert. We do our jobs. We catch this guy. And we do it before half of the Federal Government stomps in here and takes this department away from us.”

“Do you think it's really a terrorist, Chief?” asked Charlie Boyce.

“No, I think it's some kids playing a stupid prank, just like last time. Let's check it out, Charlie. Talk to the guidance counselor at the school. If you know any of the kids, talk to them. The rest of you, ask around. Haden, check the websites that sell these voice distortion machines. And find out who manufactures them. I'm going to get a court order from Judge Perlman. I want to know who bought one of these toys recently. If it's someone on-island we'll know when we get the credit card information.”

“Anything else, Chief?”

Kyle Donnelly's open attentive face irritated me. I felt like saying “You tell me.” But I controlled myself. “See if you can get a trace on the original phone call.” Donnelly took a pad out, and he started scribbling. “Also—someone should get over to Valero's and find out if there've been any unusual fertilizer purchases in the last few weeks. And check the gas stations for big diesel buys. Find out if there's any manure missing at Bartlett's.” The detectives looked blank. “Tell them why, Sergeant.”

“Homemade explosives,” Haden said. “ANFO—Ammonium nitrate/fuel oil. It's what Timothy McVeigh used in the Oklahoma bombing. And while you're at it, check out Marine and Stop&Shop, too. Ask about bulk orders of paint thinner and toilet bowl cleaner. You mix them up with any antiseptic first aid solution and you get the shoe bomber explosive TATP—very unstable, very tough to make. You definitely want to brush up on the science before you fool around with that shit. Also, has anyone bought or borrowed any chemistry textbooks recently? That might be a lead.”

“You need a hell of a lot of it for a decent sized bomb,” I added. “We should check bulk deliveries from off island, too.”

“And military explosives.” Haden said. “C-4 and thermite. Semtex, too.”

“Check your sources, see if anything's been moving.”

“My sources are pretty old and I owe most of them favors already. But okay.”

“One more thing,” I turned to the others. “Be alert. Put on your regular clothes, go out to dinner and Little League games and dart tournaments—and listen. There's a lot of gossip and innuendo out there. People love to talk. Pay attention. And if you hear anything, report it to me directly. All right?”

They nodded.

“Good then. You have enough to keep you busy for a few days. Let's get to work.”

I gestured for Haden to stay behind but immediately regretted it. He didn't need to know what I was really worried about. He had enough on his plate. I studied him for a few seconds. He was just over five foot seven, his body thick with the kind of hard fat that comes from years of weight lifting, years in the past, thinning brown hair and not one of them out of place, scalpel-sharp creases in his spotless uniform. He seemed much too solid to be falling apart.

He was staring at me expectantly. I needed to ask him something, so I chose his favorite subject. “How's your year list coming?”

“Chief?”

“Did you break a hundred yet?”

“Yeah, but—I mean…what do my bird sightings have to do with anything? We have a serious situation on our hands here, and—”

“Maybe we do. Maybe we don't. Meanwhile I have an officer on the force who pays a lot more attention to the world around him than anyone else I know. If you notice some shore bird migrating back from the Arctic early—what was that bird you saw last week?”

“A Whimbrel.”

“Right. You notice the Whimbrel, you also notice the shell casing or the heel print in the mud, or the window where someone put up new curtains—or whatever. Those boys out there see nothing.”

He ducked his head. “Thanks, Chief. Most people don't get that.”

“So? Did you see anything interesting lately?”

He smiled. “There was a Blacknecked Stilt out at Hummock Pond yesterday. That guy should be in Florida right now. Check it out if you're driving by—bright pink legs, white front, black back. Gorgeous bird.”

“Okay, Haden. Let's keep an eye out for that other bird—the red breasted Nantucket bomber. That would be a great addition to our year list of criminal species.”

“Yes sir.”

I stayed in the conference room after he left. The subject of bombs and terrorists had come up with Debbie Garrison just the day before, and the bomber in question was Billy Delavane. If our investigation collapsed among the usual unproductive clues and bogus confessions, Debbie's innuendoes would be my only lead.

I got State Police Captain Lonnie Fraker on the phone. We had sniffed suspiciously around each other for my first few years on the island. There was a natural antipathy between the State Police and the locals. But a big murder case the previous winter had changed things between us. We weren't friends and we never would be, but grudging respect and reluctant affection had begun to poke through the institutional rivalry, like weeds through cracked asphalt.

“I've dealt with these Homeland Security people before,” Fraker was saying. “I had to liaise with one of these JTTF outfits when I was working out of Springfield two years ago. And let me tell you, Chief, Joint Terrorism Task Force crews are a fucking misery. I mean, how many assholes can you stuff into one room without everybody killing each other? You got DHS, the goddamn FBI, firemen, National Guard GI Joes. We even had some spook from the NSA fucking things up. I took orders and let them fight it out, you know? I can handle these guys. I speak their language. I'll make some calls, set everything up.”

Donnelly stuck his head into the office.

“We traced the call, Chief,” he said. “The phone company gave us an override on the number block. It came from Billy Delavane's house.”

“I have to go, Lonnie,” I said. “Thanks for the help. Keep me posted.”

I hung up, rolled my chair back, and stood. “I'll deal with this myself. Assistant Chief Krakauer is in charge until I get back. Refer everything to him.”

Haden stuck his head in the door.

“Hey Kyle,” he said. “Before you do any more paperwork—try to figure out the difference between ‘which' and ‘that.' You're a high school graduate.”

“Sorry. I will.”

I shrugged in mock despair, but Haden wasn't done yet. “You're no better, Chief. And you're supposed to be a writer.” I gave him the occasional poem to proofread and he always found something to correct. “The kid has to work on ‘which' and ‘that'—you have to brush up ‘less' and ‘fewer.' ‘Fewer' is for specific things you can count. Like weeks—‘fewer than three weeks.' You wrote ‘less than three weeks.'”

“It sounds better.”

“It's wrong.”

“It's idiomatic. Anyway, what about poetic license?”

He shook his head. “You barely have a learner's permit, Chief. Don't push it.”

***

Driving around the new rotary on the way to Billy Delavane's Madaket jobsite, I could feel the toxic changes in the island. I'd been living on Nantucket less than four years, but even in that short period of time it seemed like the population had doubled. There was real crime now—ordinary squalid city crime, muggings and road rage and rape.

I had put out a press release at the beginning of the summer urging women not to walk alone at night. Every time I walked into the Stop&Shop, the courtesy desk was swarming with immigrants cashing pay checks or using the Western Union service to send money home to Brazil or Ecuador, Belarus or Bulgaria. Nantucket had been a white-bread, upper-class enclave. Now it was turning into a beehive, with workers from all over the world feasting on the building boom. That boom was sputtering to a halt. Would all those workers stick around? What would that do to the crime rate? I was going to have to keep pushing for more officers, and not just summer specials.

On the long drive down Madaket Road I hit the flashers for a second to slow down a Hummer. The big car pulled over but I just drove by. There were twenty or thirty Hummers on the island in the summer. I would have banned them if I wrote the laws. They weren't just cars, they were another piece of class war iconography, a constant reminder of the divisions that were spoiling Nantucket. The middle class was being pushed out from above and below, selling property if they had it, or quietly going bankrupt if they didn't. Town meeting had voted me a pay raise last year. Good thing—without it I would have had to leave the island myself.

The last real bulwarks against change were people like Billy Delavane, cranky islanders who held onto their properties, loving them because they were old, leaving the horse-hair plaster and clay mortar chimneys intact.

It occurred to me as I neared the western end of the island that things had come full circle. In the whaling days, Nantucket had teemed with sailors from all over the world, looking for the ‘greasy luck' of a successful voyage. Wild men of every race and color jostled each other in the crowded streets. The opportunities were different now, but the sense of buccaneering adventure and jackpot optimism remained.

That Brazilian working three jobs was buying real estate in Sao Paolo. That Jamaican riding the bike he found at the dump had scrounged the money for a down payment and was moving his family into a little condo near the airport. That Rumanian tailor had set up shop in a mail-order military tent and was now re-upholstering couches for the Cliff Road set. Sure it was crowded and messy, but that's what was the American Dream looked like when it was coming true. The only people left out were the actual Americans. But maybe it had always been that way. You got lazy and then you got displaced. People loved the idea of competition until they were forced to compete. It was a ruthless process, maybe it was the real social Darwinism, but it kept the country alive.