The Dark Tide Free for a Limited Time (19 page)

He watched the house all night. No lights ever went on. No one ever drove up or came home.

At some point he looked up the phone number Dietz had given him along with his home address and dialed it. After four rings the answering machine came on. “You’ve reached Dark Star Security…. Please leave a message.” Hauck hung up. He turned the radio to 104.3 Classic Rock and found the Who.
No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man….
His eyes grew heavy, and he dozed off for a while.

When he woke, it was light. Nothing had changed.

Hauck tucked the gun into his belt. Stretched on a pair of latex gloves. Then he grabbed a Maglite and his cell phone and stepped out of the Bronco. He pushed his way through the dense hayfield until he found the trail.

He decided that if Dietz was somehow there, he’d arrest him. He’d call in the Freehold police and work out the details later.

If he wasn’t, he’d take a look around.

He made his way down the dirt road to the front of the dilapidated house. There was a sign on the scrabbly lawn:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. BEWARE OF DOG
. He climbed up the steps, his heart beginning to pound in his chest, his palms slick with perspiration. He stood to one side of the door and peeked in through a covered window. Nothing. He drew a breath and wondered if he was doing something crazy.
Here goes….
He put a hand on the grip of his automatic. With the other he took his Maglite and knocked on the front door.

“Anyone home
?”

Nothing.

After a few moments, he knocked again. “I’m looking for some directions…. Anybody home?”

Only silence came back.

The porch was a wraparound. Hauck decided to follow it around the side. On the lawn, just off the dirt driveway, he spotted a condenser box hidden in a bush and went over and lifted the metal panel. It was the main electrical feed to the house. Hauck pulled it, disabling the phone line and the alarm. Then he went back to the porch. Through the window he could see a dining room with a plain wooden table inside. Farther along he came upon the kitchen. It was old, fifties tile and linoleum, hadn’t been updated in years. He tried the back door.

It was locked shut as well.

Suddenly a dog barked, the sound penetrating him. Hauck stiffened, swallowing his breath, feeling exposed. Then he realized that the bark had come from a neighboring property, a faraway woof that rifled through his bones, hundreds of yards off. Hauck looked out at the obstructed fields. His blood calmed.
Nerves…

He continued around the back of the house. He passed a locked shed, a lawn mower with a protective tarp covering it, a few rusted tools scattered about. There was a step up to a cedar
back porch. An old Weber grill. A bench-style outdoor table. Two French doors led to the back of the house. The curtains were drawn.

Hauck stepped carefully and paused for a moment, hidden by the curtains, in front of the door. It was locked as well. Panels of divided glass. A bolt drawn. He took his Maglite and tapped on one of the panels near the doorknob. It jiggled in its frame. Loose. He knelt down and hit the panel one more time, hard. The panel split and fell in.

Hand on his gun, he held there for a moment, waiting for any noise. Nothing. He doubted that Dietz had a security tie-in to the local police. He wouldn’t want to take the chance of anybody needlessly poking around.

Hauck reached in through the open panel and wrapped his hand around the knob. He flicked the bolt back and twisted.

The door opened wide.

There was no alarm, no sound emanating. Cautiously, Hauck stepped inside.

He found himself in some kind of shabbily decorated sunroom. Faded upholstered chairs, a wooden table. A few magazines scattered on the table.
Forbes. Outdoor Life. Security Today.

Heart pounding, Hauck took hold of his gun and went back through the kitchen, the floorboards creaking with each step. The house was dark, still. He looked into the living room and saw a fancy new Samsung flat-screen.

He was in. He just had no idea what he was searching for.

Hauck found a small room between the living room and the kitchen that was lined with bookshelves. An office. There was a small brick fireplace, a countertop desk with papers strewn about, a computer. A bunch of photos on the wall. Hauck looked. He recognized Dietz. In uniform with other policemen. In fishing clothes holding up an impressive sailfish. Another on some kind of large black-hulled sailing ship with a bare-chested, dark-haired man.

Hauck sifted through some of the papers on the desk. A few scattered bills, a couple of memos with Dark Star letterhead on them. Nothing that seemed to shed any light. The computer was on. Hauck saw an icon on the home page for Gmail, but when he clicked on it, up came a prompt asking for a password. Blocked. He took a shot and clicked the Internet icon, and the Google News homepage came on. He pointed the mouse and looked around to see what sites Dietz had previously logged on to. The last was the American Airlines site. International travel. Several seemed like standard trade sites. Farther down was something called the IAIM. He clicked—the International Association of Investment Managers.

Hauck felt his blood stir.

Harbor Capital
, Charles Friedman’s firm, had been queried in.

He sat in Dietz’s chair and tried to follow the search. A Web file on the firm came up. A description of their business, energy-related portfolios. Assets under management, a few performance charts. A short history of the firm with a bio page of the management team. A photo of Friedman.

That wasn’t all.

Falcon Partners, the investment partnership out of the BVIs, had been queried, too.

Now Hauck’s blood was racing. He realized he was on the right track. The IAIM page merely provided a listing for Falcon. There was no information or records. Only a contact name and address in Tortola, which Hauck copied down. Then he swung around to the papers on Dietz’s desk. Messages, correspondence, bills.

There had to be something here.

In a plastic in-box tray, he found something that sent his antennae buzzing. A photocopy of a list of names, from the National Association of Securities Dealers, of people who had received licenses to trade securities for investment purposes. The
list ran on for pages, hundreds of names and securities firms, from all across the globe. Hauck scanned down—
what would Dietz be looking for?

Then, all of a sudden, it occurred to him just what was unique about the list of licenses.

They had all been granted within the past year.

As Hauck paged through it, he saw that several names had been circled. Others were crossed out, with handwritten notes in the margins. There were hundreds. A long, painstaking search to narrow them down.

Then it hit him, like a punch in the solar plexus.

Karen Friedman wasn’t the only person who thought her husband was alive!

There was a printer-copier on the credenza adjacent to the desk, and Hauck placed the security list along with Dietz’s notes in it. He kept looking. Amid some scattered sheets, he found a handwritten note on Dark Star stationery.

The Barclays Bank. In Tortola.

There was a long number under it, which had to be an account number, then arrows leading to other banks—the First Caribbean Bank. Nevis. Banc Domenica. Names. Thomas Smith. Ronald Torbor. It had been underlined three times.

Who were these people?
What was Dietz looking for? Hauck had always assumed that Charles and Dietz were connected. The hit-and-runs…

That’s when it struck him.
Jesus…

Dietz was searching for him, too.

Hauck picked up a scrawled sheet of paper from the tray, some kind of travel itinerary. American Airlines. Tortola. Nevis. His skin started to feel all tingly.

Dietz was ahead of him.
Did he possibly already know where Charles was?

He placed in a copy of the same sheet in the printing bay and
pressed. The machine started warming up.

Then suddenly there was a noise from outside the window. Hauck’s heart slammed to a stop.

Wheels crunching over gravel, followed by the sound of a car door slamming.

Someone was home.

Hauck’s blood became ice. He went over to the window and peeked through the drawn curtains. Dietz’s office faced the wrong direction; there was no way to determine who it was. He removed the Sig 9 from his belt and checked the clip. He was completely out of bounds here—no warrant, no backup.

Inside, Hauck was just praying it wasn’t Dietz.

He heard a knock at the door. Someone shouting out,
“Phil?”
Then, after a short pause, something that made his pulse skyrocket. The sound of a key being inserted in the front door, the lock opening. A man’s voice calling.

“Phil?”

Hauck hid behind the office door. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the Sig and stood pressed against the door. He had no way out. Whoever it was had already come inside.

Hauck heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the creak of bending wood on the floorboards. “
Phil? You here?”

His heart started going wild. Panicked, his mind flashed to
whether or not his Bronco might have been seen. He realized that sooner or later whoever this was, if he made his way around the house, would notice the smashed rear windowpane. Would find his way back to the office. Whoever this was had access. On the other hand, Hauck was there totally unlawfully. He had no warrant. He hadn’t notified the local police. He would be cited just for bringing in his gun. The footsteps came closer. He wasn’t sure what to do. Only that he’d gotten himself into a sizable amount of shit, and it was getting deeper by the second. The man was walking around the house.
Should he make a run for it?

Then something happened that sent Hauck’s pulse into a frenzy.

The fucking printer began to print.

The pages Hauck had fed into the tray, they were suddenly going through. The hum of the machine was like an alarm bell.

“Phil!”

The footsteps got closer. Behind the door Hauck gripped his Sig, pressing the muzzle up against his cheek. The machine continued to print. He couldn’t stop it!
Think, think, what to do?

Hauck froze at the creak of a nearby floorboard as whoever it was came around the corner. He peeked inside the office. Hauck held, rigid as a board.

“Phil, I didn’t know you were here….”

The man paused, remaining in the doorway. The pages continued to feed into the machine one by one.

Hauck held his breath.
Shit…

A second later the heavy office door slammed into his chest, taking him by surprise, the Sig flying out of his hand.

Hauck’s eyes darted after the gun, the door barreling into him again, striking him in the side of the head, dazing him, the gun clattering across the floor.

The man crashed the door into Hauck one more time, this time following it into the room, mashing Hauck’s right hand in
the hinge. Hauck finally threw the brunt of his weight against it and rammed it back with all his might, sending the man reeling into the room.

The man had close-cropped hair and a large nose, his cheek bloodied from the blow. He glared at Hauck. “What the hell are you doing here? Who the fuck are you?”

Hauck stared back. He realized he had seen him before.

The second witness.
The guy in a warm-up jacket at AJ Raymond’s hit-and-run. A track coach or something.

Hodges.

Their eyes met in a stunned, glaring gaze.

Hodges’s eyes were equally as wide.
“You!”

Hauck’s glance darted toward the gun on the floor, as Hodges took the nearest thing available, a decorative scrimshaw horn Dietz kept on a side table, and lunged in Hauck’s direction, slashing the sharp point of the horn through Hauck’s sweatshirt and tearing into his skin.

Hauck cried out. The horn dug through his chest, his ribs on fire.

Hodges slashed at him again, Hauck flailing desperately for the other man’s arm to block the blow, pinning it back, while Hodges pushed with all his might with his other hand against Hauck’s neck.

He kneed Hauck sharply in the side of his chest, his wound.

“Aaagh!”

“What are you doing here?” Hodges screamed at him again.

“I know,” Hauck grunted back. “I know what’s happened.” Blood seeped through the ripped, damp fabric of his sweatshirt. “It’s over, Hodges. I know about the hit-and-runs.”

Straining, Hauck forced back his attacker’s fingers, reaching for the handle of the horn. It fell, skidding away.

Hauck faced him, clutching his side. “I know they were set up. I know they were done to protect Charles Friedman and Dolphin Oil. The police are on the way.” He was still dazed from the
first blows, short of breath. His neck was raw and throbbing where Hodges had squeezed it. “You’re done, man.”

“Police…” Hodges echoed skeptically. “So who the fuck are you, the advance guard?”

Eyes ablaze, he darted to the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker there and swung it at Hauck as hard as he could, narrowly missing his head by inches and striking into the wall behind him, shards of dug-out plaster splintering over the floor.

Hauck dove headfirst into him, knocking Hodges back against the desk, heavy books and photos tumbling all over them, the printer crashing down from the shelf.

They rolled onto the floor, Hodges coming up on top. He was strong. Maybe a few years back Hauck could’ve taken him, but he was still dazed from the body blows of the door and the gash on his side. Hodges fought like he had nothing to lose. He kneed Hauck deeply in the groin, sending the air rushing out of him, and grabbed the iron poker lengthwise with both hands, pinned it across Hauck’s chest like a vise, forcing it into the nook of his neck.

Hauck gagged, sucking in a desperate breath.

“You think we did it to protect him?” Hodges said, squeezing him, his face turning red. “You don’t know a fucking thing.” He continued to press the poker into the cavity of Hauck’s neck. Hauck felt his airway closing on him, a clawing tightness taking over his lungs. Intensifying. He tried to roll his attacker off, knee him, but he was pinned and the iron rod was squeezing the life out of him. He felt the blood rush into his face, his strength waning, his lungs about to burst.

Hodges was going to kill him.

Straining, he tried with everything he had to push the poker back. His breath was desperate, his lungs clutching for blocked air. The blood was almost bursting through his head.

That’s when he felt the hard mound of the gun pressing sharply into his back. Hodges had him pinned, but somehow Hauck forced a shoulder up and reached, one arm dangling back, the
other vainly trying to pry Hodges’s grip away from his throat. Fingers grasping, Hauck found the warm steel of the muzzle, spun it around under his body for the grip.

“Stop,”
he gasped, “lemme talk. Stop.”

“How did you get here?”
Hodges shouted at him. “How did you find out?” It was as if an iron hoe were being clawed inside Hauck’s throat. Finally he managed to wrap his fingers around the Sig’s handle. With the gun still underneath his body, he maneuvered it around.

“How?”
Hodges demanded, pinning Hauck’s legs with his thighs and pressing the last gulps of air out of his chest.

All Hauck could do was raise himself ever so slightly, creating the tiniest space for him to slide his gun hand around, as Hodges now saw what he was attempting. And so, exerting himself even harder, he pinned Hauck’s arm back with his knee, jamming the poker tighter into his larynx.

Hauck’s lungs were about to explode.

His shoulder was pressed back so tightly there was no way he could aim. He managed to wrap his finger around the trigger, but the muzzle was jammed in against his body. He had no idea where it was even pointed, only that his strength was waning, his air disappearing…. No more time.

He braced for the explosion in his side.

And fired—a muffled, close-in pop.

Hauck felt a jolt. The concussive shock seemed to reverberate inside both of their bodies. He tensed, expecting the rush of pain.

None came.

On top of him, Hodges grimaced. The iron rod was still pressed into Hauck’s neck.

There was a sharp smell of cordite in Hauck’s nostrils. Slowly, the pressure on his throat released.

Hodges’s eyes went to his side. Hauck saw an enlarging flower of red oozing from under his shirt there. Hodges straightened, his hand reaching to his side, and drew it back, smeared with blood.

“Sonofafucking bitch
…” he groaned.

Hauck pushed his legs, and, glazy-eyed, Hodges rolled off him. Heaving, Hauck gulped precious, needed air deep into his lungs. His side felt on fire. There was blood all over him—whose, he wasn’t sure. Hodges crawled his way to the door.

“It’s over,” Hauck gasped, staring over at him, barely able to point his gun.

Clumsily, Hodges dragged himself up. A damp scarlet blotch seeped out of his shirt. He clamped it with his hand. “You don’t have a fucking clue,” he said, coughing back a heavy laugh.

He winced. Stood there, waiting for Hauck to pull the trigger. Exhausted, Hauck could barely raise the gun.

“You’re dead!
You don’t know it yet, but you’re dead.” Hodges glared at him. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with!”

Hunched over, he staggered out of the room. Hauck could do nothing to stop him. It took everything he had just to pull himself up, coughing air back into his obstructed air pipe, his clothes drenched in sweat. He lurched outside after Hodges, clutching his ribs. Everything had gone wrong. He heard the sound of Hodges’s truck starting up, spotted droplets of blood leading off the porch to the driveway.

“Hodges!
” Hauck came down the steps and leveled his gun at the truck. It backed out of the driveway and sped off down the road. Hauck took aim at the rear tires, his finger pulsed. “Stop!” he called after him.
Stop
. He didn’t even hear his own voice.

But he just held there, watching the truck ramble down the road, his gun aimed into the retreating cloud of dust.

It took everything Hauck had to focus on a single thought.

That he was involved in something—something that had blown up in his face.

And that he was no longer representing anything. Not all the oaths, not the truth, not even Karen.

Only his own base desire to know where it led.