The Company of the Dead (46 page)

The evening had been proclaimed a small but portentous victory for the South. Incursions had been made and factories might be burning near the border, yet what was claimed to be Kennedy’s first assault on his own homeland had been nipped in the bud.

Malcolm could tell the broadcasts had been finessed by deft hands. Smiling soldiers filled every second shot, arms around their companions and an enthusiastic wave to the family back home.

She’d called Houston, of course, and with her new watchword had little difficulty being directed to Webster’s private line.

The director was pleased with her handling of the Savannah incident. Making Hardas and Morgan into posthumous heroes had developed into a charming prequel for the events unfolding in Nashville. He’d told her that punishment meted out to the evil was good copy, but a bit of redemption—now and then—was better for the soul. The civilians lapped it up.

Then he’d laughed mirthlessly, saying that her story might have even flushed Kennedy out of whatever godforsaken hole he’d been hiding in, to boot.

She told him that they had a prisoner in custody. That she’d planned on heading west anyway, in her pursuit of Kennedy, and that Reid had requested transport to Nashville along the way.

“I
want
you there, Agent Malcolm,” Webster had purred. “I’d pay good money to see the look on his face when he sees you.”

The bastard had known all along, of course. Little wonder he so enjoyed her Morgan/Hardas scenario. It looked like betrayal was to be the theme of the day. Would he be so pleased to know, she’d wondered, about the damning evidence that inexorably linked him to the shadows behind Camelot?

Was there anything she could do about it?

Before signing off she’d said, “Director, I don’t buy what’s happening in Nashville. I think it’s a diversion, if it’s related at all. Kennedy’s associations with the Japanese may run deep, but everything you gave me on the major connects him with black and indian operatives. No formal links exist with Japanese terrorists or Special Forces.”

“And yet there he is,” Webster had replied. “At the heart of it all. Have a chat with Agent Reid. Ask him about Mazatlan. Then when you hear that Kennedy’s stormed the gates of heaven, you’ll think twice about doubting it. Happy hunting, Agent Malcolm.”

The helicopter dropped out of the night on a squall of churning air. Invisible tendrils lashed at her coat and sent her hair whipping about her face. It balanced above them for a moment before settling onto the roof with surprising grace.

Newcombe cast about wildly, hardly the seasoned aviator. Blindness and restricted mobility had reduced him to animal instincts.

Reid had ordered the helicopter to save them struggling uptown to the airport. He’d ordered the tac agent because he meant business. Maybe because he’d suddenly found himself holding a ticket to the hottest game in town—a showdown with Kennedy on the streets of Nashville. That was how he was playing it anyhow, wasting little time hustling the group onto the helicopter. She may have provided the Raptor, but Reid was determined to make it his show.

Malcolm was directed to a small seat behind the pilot. The prisoner sat resignedly in his own seat while Reid fastened his cuffs to an adjacent handrail. Reid caught her eye, mouthed “Hold tight”, and they were snatched into the air. The city below them, a circuitboard of flickering lights, faded in the thickening wisps of low cloud.

Her few attempts to speak with Reid during the flight were rendered futile by the rotor’s engine. Mazatlan would have to wait. She contended with the shudder and shake of the helicopter, thankful that the airport was a blissfully short distance away.

On the ground, there was barely a moment to grasp her bag before they were whisked to a runway at the edge of the complex. Fatigue had thrown her orientation, casting her adrift. She felt lost on the dark expanse of tarmac. The Raptor, a glitter-edged shadow against the blacktop, seemed familiar, but had she really stood here this morning, debating her worth with Reid? That moment felt like years ago.

Reid had a cigarette in his mouth. He’d shoved Newcombe into a crouch on the runway’s pitch, and stood by him like a hunter celebrating fallen prey.

“Where was it?” he asked her. He was puffing at the cigarette hurriedly, drawing a long bright glow from its wandering tip.

“Where was what?” Malcolm replied.

“You said you had some leads to follow out west.” He had his eyes on the ground crew, as if the strength of his will, powered by nicotine and adrenaline, might drive them faster at their appointed tasks.

She thought about it carefully before replying. “Arkansas.”

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye—one of the prisoner’s little paroxysms. He’d made the occasional outburst a few times since having the blindfold applied.

“Arkansas, huh?” Reid said absently.

“Yes.”

Reid was inspecting the Raptor now. He had his mind on other matters, talking to hear the sound of his own voice. Talking to kill time. He probably wouldn’t even remember her reply.

Her eyes were on the prisoner. She said, “Morning Star, Arkansas.”

Newcombe’s head cocked itself in her direction for a moment too long.

Earlier, waiting on the roof for the copter, Reid had been talking for the prisoner’s benefit. He’d been discussing a German interrogation technique, acquired from their Afrikan holdings. It had been inspired by the native account that inserting a red hot poker in a canary’s eye prompted it to sing so much sweeter. He’d then adjusted the bandages and fastened the blindfold over the man’s pale blue eyes, saying, “I guess cultural exchange is one of the boons of an effective colonial system.”

She’d shuddered then, but now, looking down at the unseeing face, she couldn’t help but experience a moment of satisfaction. Newcombe had sung his song.

The Raptor growled to life.

It was time to bring Major Joseph Kennedy out of the cold.

Lightholler fumbled at his feet for the Mauser. Kennedy had his Shingen trained on the paramedic’s chest. Both pistols were empty.

What had been a barricade five seconds ago now adorned the ambulance’s grille. What had been a hotel ten seconds ago was a flaming shell.

Kennedy said, “Don’t slow down.”

The driver shifted up a gear and they resumed their wild pace. Lightholler, pistol back in his hand, kept him covered. The wind shrieked past the cracked window. Other sirens joined their own in a rising wail. Red and yellow glowed against the wall as a convoy of ambulances screamed past in the opposite direction. There was a sputter from the radio.

“Unit five, what is your condition?”

Watanabe was moving. His hands clasped his abdomen, fingers clutching where the bullet had entered. He was covered in a mantle of broken glass. A flask of saline slapped against its drip stand, whipping the IV back and forth.

“Repeat—unit five, what is your condition?”

Shards of glass bristled between Kennedy’s collar and neck. His mouth was dry, his head throbbed with dull exhaustion and pain. “Can you help him?” he asked the paramedic.

The paramedic’s face was pale. Blood trickled from a ragged cut just above his left eyebrow. He checked the monitor array and looked back up at the flask. He eyed Kennedy with contempt.

Kennedy holstered the Shingen.

The paramedic adjusted a valve on the IV and passed the chamber over to Kennedy. “Keep squeezing this,” he said.

Kennedy squeezed. Fluid filled the chamber and coursed down the tubing into Watanabe’s arm.

“Unit five, current location?”

“Tell them you’re headed to military,” Kennedy said.

The driver reached for the mike. “This is five, copy. We’re on Franklin and making for military. Over.”

“Roger that, five.”

“Cross the river,” Kennedy said. “Get us on the interstate.”

“Don’t cross the river.” Watanabe’s voice was the scrape of a blade against concrete. “Where are we?”

“Franklin Street.” Kennedy looked up at the paramedic for confirmation.

“Franklin, turning onto First,” the paramedic muttered.

“There’s a place ... on Deaderick ... near the museum. Take me there.”

“That’s close,” the paramedic said, relieved. “Mike, we’re going to Deaderick. Take a left at Confederate, and then turn into Sixth.”

“We can take you to a hospital,” Kennedy said.

“That’s no good for either of us. At Deaderick they can fix me, or fix it so I don’t feel this.”

“Okay. Take it easy—you’re going to be alright.”

A blur of cafés and boutiques flashed by. Beyond, the Cumberland River flowed darkly.

Kennedy listened in on the radio reports. Three hotels on Fourth had been attacked; the Japanese embassy on McGavock was in flames. All city hospitals were on disaster alert. Two infantry battalions were being diverted from their march to the border and were making camp at the city limits. There was talk of a Japanese guerrilla attack, talk of a traitor’s secret army. It sounded like a twisted version of Camelot. Strange ideas presented themselves at the edge of Kennedy’s thoughts.

“Where on Deaderick?” the driver called back.

“Across from the museum, two storeys, red brick,” Watanabe gasped. Kennedy repeated it to the driver.

A few moments later they pulled up outside the building, siren still wailing.

The windows lit up on the second floor.

“Leave me here.” Watanabe’s voice was a frothing whisper.

The siren withered to nothing, leaving a low buzz in Kennedy’s ears. The engine idled, the IV pump ticked a low, rapid staccato. The paramedic stared at him apprehensively.

“Leave me here and go,” Watanabe said again.

Kennedy ignored him. He asked the paramedic, “You know who I am?”

The paramedic nodded. His jaw jutted forwards, the muscles of his face working to maintain an element of self-control. Kennedy looked over at the driver. Lightholler had the gun at his chest.

Kennedy examined the paramedic’s name tag. “You both get to go home tonight, Nick. Everything will be okay. Help me get him out of here.”

Lightholler followed the driver onto the street and helped him work the hatch open. Kennedy unlatched the gurney lock while the paramedic adjusted the drip stand. He reached into the folds of Watanabe’s bloodied kimono and withdrew a clip for the Shingen. Reloaded.

Two Asian men, their arms folded, were standing on the top stair leading up to the building. One of them spoke into a hand-held radio.

“Get back in the ambulance, John. Take them with you.” Kennedy nodded towards the paramedics. “Watch them.”

Lightholler glanced at the men on the stairs, then back at Kennedy. He said, “I’ve got your back.”

Kennedy wheeled the gurney towards the stairs. He had a pistol in his holster. He had two dead friends on his conscience. He had a strange idea at the edge of his thoughts.

He said, “This is Yukio Watanabe. He represents Kobe of New York Prefecture.”

The men looked at each other. One cracked open the door and spoke to someone within the shadows.

“He needs medical attention,” Kennedy added.

The door opened wide and a man emerged. He scampered, crab-like, down the stairs. He wore faded surgical scrubs and his gloves were the colour of rust. He approached the ambulance.

The paramedic leaned out and said, “Abdo wound, single bullet. Might be the spleen, might be the stomach.” He rattled off the details. “BP stable, second flask of saline running now.”

“Saline?” the doctor muttered.

“We’re out of colloid.”

The doctor peeled off the gloves. Turning to the men on the stairs, he said, “Bring him inside.”

One of them stepped lithely down and seized the gurney. Kennedy grabbed the other end. Its wheels clacked loudly on the quiet street as they heaved it up the stairs and into the doorway.

Kennedy stepped back down as Watanabe’s body vanished within.

The lights went out one by one.

The doctor glanced at him appraisingly, turned and said, “Yoshikawa?”

The other man guarding the stair, having secured the door, came down to join him.

“This is no good.” The doctor crumpled the stained gloves in his hands, looking from Kennedy to the battle-scarred ambulance and back. “You being here is not good at all.”

Kennedy looked across at the bodyguard. He was low and wide and built for sumo.

“We were never here,” Kennedy said softly.

“No one ever is,” the doctor replied. “But it’s something we need to be certain of.”

The accumulation of threats and danger coupled with Kennedy’s instincts to form a new level of appreciation. Nashville was in flames.

And they think I’m behind this.

He saw bronze and orange leaves spiral onto an untouched chessboard pregnant with a thousand possibilities. A place where a threat was as good as an assault.

The doctor appeared confused, perhaps by Kennedy’s poise. He frowned as a conclusion dawned upon him. “Yukio Watanabe, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are Joseph Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear.” The doctor glanced away again, this time surveying the street. His gaze held expectancy. His watchful eyes searched the dark for vengeful shadows while the sumo wrestler shifted on nervous feet.

“Who are you affiliated with?” Kennedy demanded. “Kobe or Shimamura?”

“I am a doctor. My affiliation is with the injured.”

“Of course it is. I see no reason to further disturb your work. I’ve been quite busy tonight myself.”

The doctor looked up past the trees. Plumes of smoke rose over the skyline. A helicopter flitted among the clouds. He looked back at Kennedy and read a terrible promise in his eyes.

“You have my word that no one will hear of this place,” Kennedy said. “Is that good enough for you? Good enough for your Family?”

“Dear gods, yes.”

Kennedy turned his back on them. He walked back to the ambulance. His legs felt hollow, his chest shuddered with each heartbeat. He looked back over his shoulder. They were gone.

Lightholler had the ambulance door open. He leaned out towards Kennedy and said, “Remind me never to play poker with you.”