The story Sherard had told to warrant the use of the TWRA cruiser involved a fictitious stepdaughter of a close friend of Sherard's. She was visiting friends on the
Holly Marie
. There was a family emergency, and the girl's cell phone wasn't working. Sherard said he was in Nashville on business and had volunteered to find the girl.
What the officer made of Heidi and Alex was anyone's guess, but Sherard couldn't afford to park them elsewhere. Heidi might still proye to be useful, and Alex was indispensable, should they find the nuclear device hidden aboard the houseboat.
Carlisle saw someone he knew in a johnboat with a Merc 75 outboard, puttering home with two fishing companions. Carlisle slowed the cruiser and pulled abreast of the johnboat, staying ten feet away.
"This old boy," he said to Sherard, "has lived on Old Hick'ry for twenty years. He knows ever'body. Mind taking the wheel for me; just keep us even with the johnboat."
Carlisle stepped down to the deck and hailed the man in the tatty brim-weary hat sitting in the stern with his hand on the tiller of the outboard. "Hey there, Homebrew."
"That you, Carlisle? How's it hangin', bud?"
"Plumb and dandy. How you doin'?"
"Right pert, thanky. This here's Macon Oldsmar from Kentuck, and his boy Ben, come down here to see what real fishin's all about."
"Pleased to know y'all. Say, Homebrew, reckon you could help me out with something? This gentleman here's on a mission a mercy you might say. We need to locate us a houseboat name of
Holly Marie
."
"Well, you know I ain't that strong on 'memberin' names nowadays. But give me a description, she's on the lake I just might be able to tell you whur."
Carlisle pulled out his shirt-pocket notebook. "She's seventy-four foot, built by McAllan boatworks in Bowling Green. Barge hull, sixteen-foot beam, two upper decks, raked, and a fly bridge, which I allow is kinda unusual."
"Yeah, you trailer them boogers, they don't fit the overpasses. Well, all right, sir. Seen one like it fourâfive weeks ago at Marvin's, in for a overhaul and paint job. They was paintin' it just the prettiest shade a yeller. You give Marvin a call, he can prob'ly tell you where it's docked at now."
8:15 P.M. CDT
S
unset.
T
he TWRA whaler coasted around a shadowy bend of Old Hickory Lake into darker water, leaving the bright surface of mid-lake behind. Finger coves, where the last light of day was blocked by a long rocky bluff behind them, penetrated fifty to a hundred yards into the hilly wooded terrain. There were a few lights showing through the trees, homes above or along the shoreline. A couple of fishing boats lingered beneath the bluff.
"Good bass fishing there," Carlisle pointed out. "Plenty of submerged structure. Crankbait's your best bet, this time a evenin'."
Bertie, standing in the bow with binoculars, said, "Yellow houseboat. To the right, that next inlet or whatever you call it."
"Good enough," Carlisle said, giving the wheel a turn. "We were gettin' a little low on gas."
"No lights showing on the houseboat," Bertie reported. "There's a road, a fence, and a gate. Padlocked."
"Looks like ever'body's gone off to dinner or to Garth Brooks," Carlisle said, taking the cruiser into the unroofed dock opposite the big houseboat, idling there with the bow against the dock fender.
"I'll leave a note," Sherard said curtly.
"Yes, sir. Would one of you young ladies tie us up?"
Eden made the jump to the dock with the length of dacron line secured to a bow cleat. She wrapped it around a post.
"Let's just make sure we don't disturb nobody," Carlisle said, giving the cruiser's siren a tap. The only light that had come on was the motion detector on the top of the post that Eden had triggered. They waited. There was no response to the siren. The houseboat was buttoned down tight.
Tom and Bertie joined Eden on the dock. Alex got up, stretched, glanced at Heidi, still comforting herself with the icebag.
"Coming,
honey
?"
"Fuhkoff."
Carlisle said a trifle nervously, "Need to remind y'all that this is private property."
Alex pulled his folder and showed Carlisle his bona fides. Although the sun had gone down, it was hot and still in the cove, and Alex had a film of sweat on his face. "Department of Energy, your government, Threat Assessment Intelligence Division. What it means, I am head guy here, not you.
"You're not an American, are you?" Carlisle asked, with growing unease.
"Russian. Take it easy, Carlisle. We are not the Black Hats anymore."
"I thoughtâ"
"You come with us. Stay off your fuhkeeng radio."
Sherard had boarded the houseboat and was walking around, looking for a way in.
"Locked," he reported. "Probably alarmed."
"We'll break in," Bertie suggested, a note of strain in her voice.
"Now just a minuteâ" Carlisle said.
Alex gave him a pat on the shoulder. Carlisle pulled angrily away.
"I don't know who y'all think you are, but you're about to commit a seriousâ"
"Carlisle, there is stolen nuclear device with one-kiloton capability, could be armed and ticking fifty feet from where we stand. That is powerful enough weapon to vaporize this end of the lake. Is also very bad for the wildlife population. I am not shitting you, honey. I don't know if we have five hours or five minutes to disarm. Where is your piece?"
"Uh, TWRA personnel don't carry sidearms."
"Then grab a wrench and break some glass. Now."
"My God. My God," Carlisle said, beginning to perceive that Alex was on the level.
T
he houseboat alarm hadn't been activated. Sherard located a light switch inside the door with the smoked-glass panel Carlisle had broken through.
They went down four steps to the salon, turning on more lights. It was hot inside. Bertie and Eden were behind Sherard. They looked around. Eden walked slowly through the salon to the galley, but not in a straight line. She appeared to be walking around something on the deck, her face growing taut. Bertie went the other way, into one of the staterooms.
Carlisle said, "What's going on? What are they doing?"
Eden walked back into the salon, taking the same little detour, glancing at the floor. She was breathing hard.
"It's not here," she said. "It
was
here, but they took it away." She pointed to the alcove where cases of fishing rods and a trolling motor were stored. "Not too long ago, though."
"What was on the floor in the galley?" Sherard asked. "Where you didn't want to walk."
"Body. A woman's body. Her neck's broken. Heidi was right." Bertie came out of the second stateroom.
"Two women. Both dead. I don't get it, though. I sense fear. That was one of the women. She died right here." Bertie leaned over, passing a spread hand above the deck carpeting. "But
him
. No emotion. No anger or plea sure. Casual as wringing a dove's neck. He's blond. Five-eleven, six feet. Not bad-looking, except he has arms as long as an ape's." Bertie held up something in her other hand. "Throwaway razor. Whoever cleaned up after these two missed it. I don't care much for the aftershave the blond guy uses. I forgot to mention. He has tattoos. Barbed wire, a sailing ship below his right shoulder."
Carlisle's eyes were huge. "W-who are you people?"
"You said
two
men, honey," Alex said to Bertie.
"Right. There were two women and two men. Don't have a fix on the other guy yet."
"Dump," Eden said, looking as if she was about to gag. "Oh Jesus. They're buried in a dump! Burning garbage. Oh shit." She walked swiftly upstairs, Carlisle literally jumping out of her way, and went outside.
"I need to use the bathroom," Carlisle pleaded. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and chin. His eyes had sunk back into his head.
Alex nodded to him, looked at Tom Sherard.
"Just wait," Tom said, his eyes on Bertie. She was prowling around the salon. Studying objects with her hands, not actually touching anything. The furniture, the projection TV, the table where Randy and Herb and their doomed guests had whiled away the time playing canasta. Two decks of cards were on the table. Bertie picked up a deck, shuffled thoughtfully, replaced it. She had a long look at the TV, then passed into the galley, taking a giant step over the place where the body of Sandi Goldfarb had lain.
When she came back she stood a few feet from the TV again, staring. "Turn it on for me, Tom."
"Can't you?"
"No. Not permitted. You. Please."
He walked past her, picked up the remote control, and pushed the button marked POWER.
Nothing happened. A spot of light appeared in the center of the screen but there was no picture, no sound. As far as his own senses could detect.
Bertie went reeling back with her hands clasping her ears, a scream of pain hung up in her throat. She fell, writhing.
"
Turn it off!
"
Sherard thumbed the OFF button. The blip of light faded from the screen. Bertie struggled to her feet, the heel of one hand pressed against her forehead.
"Oh. Damn.
Damn
, did that ever hurt!"
"Bertie, what happened?"
She looked at him. Tenderly touched her ears. "What? I'm sorry. Can't hear. The crowd, it's the biggest, loudestâI'm almost deaf."
Alex looked at Sherard. "How often does she get like this?"
"Only when she's on high-burn."
Eden came back down the steps into the salon, two at a time. She glanced at Bertie.
What's up?
she asked subvocally.
"Huge crowd. Lights. That big stadium we saw, on the river in town. That's where they went."
Eden said excitedly to Alex and Sherard, "In a red pickup, maybe an SUV; I couldn't tell. It's a big one. Whoever's driving had trouble getting through the gate."
"ESP?" Sherard asked her.
"No, logical deduction." She held up her right hand. There were flecks of red paint on her fingertips.
"What? What did you say, Eden? I'm deaf."
Eden showed them what she had in her left hand. A shard of thick curved plastic.
"He must have popped a parking light when he sideswiped the gate. So we want a red truck, minor fender damage, left front unless he was backing out."
Bertie shook her head a couple of times as if to clear her mind.
"Where's the biggest show in Nashville tonight?" she asked Carlisle, who had come unsteadily out of the bathroom blotting his face with a towel.
"Garth Brooks. Sold out. Seventy thousand tickets." He glanced at his chronometer. "Started at seven-thirty." He had a sickly smile. "Wish that's where I was."
"You're going," Eden said, grabbing his shirtsleeve. "We need your boat." When he was slow to budge Eden released him and dashed up the stairs again.
Tom Sherard was closest to Eden when he heard the shot. She stopped suddenly outside on the lower deck of the houseboat, looking in surprise at someone on the dock to her right. Eden's hands rose slowly, an attitude of vulnerability. And Sherard was thrust back in time to a New York street, to gunshots and screams, Gillian down and already beyond his help.
Not again. Not to Eden!
He pushed off on his good leg and lunged with a yell through the doorway, throwing himself at the motionless girl. He didn't hear a second shot as he tackled her, lifted her off her feet, his momentum carrying her out of the line of fire. They sprawled together on the deck, rolled over. The only pain he felt was in the shoulder and elbow he landed on. He pinned the stunned girl to the deck, shielding her body with his own, and looked back.
Heidi was on the dock with a rifle, efficiently working the bolt, chambering another round. She fired again. Sherard knew he'd been hit but the impact was slight, near the middle of his back.
"Gun!" he shouted, warning the others. Winchester, perhaps, about a twenty-inch barrel, probably .223 caliber. The size of the magazine told him she had several rounds left.
There was nothing he could do. Heidi was too far away. She would drop him before he took three steps in her direction. And Eden wasn't moving. If anyone tried to come to their rescue, Heidi had a clear line of sight.
Heidi jacked another cartridge into the chamber. Her thin face looked drawn from migraine, but her expression was calm. She moved a step closer. Sherard judged, with a faint feeling of regret, that the range was about fifteen yards. Heidi would go for the head shot now, put him away, then continue rapid-fire until the magazine was empty and Eden also lay dead in his arms.
He had a glimpse of someone else on deck, near the doorway. Heidi was seeing him down the barrel of the rifle but she also caught the movement and was distracted. Her fourth shot struck a chrome railing a few inches above Sherard's head.