The Monarch (12 page)

 

12

Tallahassee, Florida

8:00
A.M.
Local Time

J
ONATHAN STUMBLED DOWN
the stairs, wiping sleep from his eyes as the pounding on his front door continued. It was almost as loud as the pounding in his head. After he'd spent most of the night chasing The Monarch story across the channels, a tiny, paranoid voice in the back of his head now whispered:

Have they come for me?

He shook the nonsense away, fighting it by redoubling his irritation at the intruder. He stomped to the door and yanked it open.

“What is it? Don't you know what time—­” The words fell out of Jonathan's brain but missed his mouth. “Seven
A.M.
, but I'm still on Central Time,” Lew said.

A smile slowly crept across Jonathan's shocked face before he threw his arms around his old friend.

“Jeez. I know you're single, but you still like girls, right?” Then a quiet came over Lew and he put his arms around Jonathan and squeezed. “I missed you, man.”

After a minute, they got hold of themselves and separated, both of them trying to hide their moist eyes and clearing their throats. Jonathan slapped Lew on the shoulder a few times, wearing a grin so big it threatened to be continued on the next face.

“You going to invite me in before the neighborhood watch registers us at Macy's?” If possible, Jonathan smiled bigger. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed that sense of humor. Then he saw Lew's ride sitting in the driveway, full of holes and spewing steam out from under the hood. He read the writing on the side.

“Yazoo City Coroner? Where the hell is Yazoo City? Iraq?”

“It's a long stor—­”

“
Uncle Lew!
” They both turned and saw Natalie bounding down the stairs in a flash of brown hair and SpongeBob. She left the ground and landed in Lew's arms.

“Oof!” Lew teetered back until Jonathan grabbed his shoulder and steadied him. “Hey, squirt. What do you weigh now, like eight hundred pounds?”

“Where've you been? Are you staying? Is that your truck? Can I have a ride? How much—­”

“Okay, okay, honey. Let Uncle Lew get in the door before you turn on the lights and get out the rubber hose.”

“How about I make you Uncle Lew's special cinnamon and chocolate chip waffles?” Lew asked as he walked in carrying Natalie.

Her scream of delight almost shattered the neighbor's windows.

Jonathan, who had been nervous about his pantry stock, was relieved when he had enough ingredients and, more importantly, syrup for the morning feast. They ate and laughed until they could hardly move, most of the conversation and attention on Natalie.

The phone rang and it turned out to be Kayla Swenson, one of Natalie's friends. She and her family were going to Kayla's brother's basketball tournament over in Quincy and she wanted to know if Natalie could go. Kayla's dad was a cop, and the girls had become good friends, so Jonathan said yes. Natalie would only go if Uncle Lew promised to still be there when she got back. He promised and she ran upstairs to get ready.

“Kinda late notice, isn't it?” Lew asked, meaning the invite timing.

“Ha! This is more notice than I usually get. Most of the time they show up in the driveway and Natalie asks in front of them,” Jonathan said, still at the sink washing the breakfast dishes.

“Nice. No pressure,” Lew said, leaning back in a chair at the breakfast table. He was watching the news on the television perched up on top of the refrigerator.

“I don't mind. The Swensons are a nice, normal family. And it works both ways. Most weekends Kayla either sleeps over here or Talie sleeps over there. Guarantee she'll ask for a sleepover when they get back. You watch.”

“I love it,” Lew said with a big smile.

“What?”

“You and your domesticity. I didn't think you had it in you, but that's no secret,” Lew said. “Especially after Sam died.”

“Neither did I,” Jonathan said, feeling guilty. He hadn't talked to Natalie about her dreams yet. He wasn't even sure if he ever would, but right now it sat heavy on his shoulders like a yoke laden with buckets of water.

“Tell me something, buddy,” Jonathan said, needing to get out of his own head.

“Anything,” Lew said, licking syrup off his palm.

“There wouldn't happen to be a prison in Yazoo, would there?”

Lew closed his eyes and exhaled. Apparently he'd wanted to avoid this, or at least avoid it as long as possible. Jonathan knew the feeling.

“How'd you know?” Lew asked.

“All through breakfast you've been protecting your food like someone's going to take it away. I mean, you were never Emily Post, but you broke some sort of land speed record scarfing down those waffles,” Jonathan said, trying to lighten the mood.

Lew lifted his coffee mug to his mouth but stopped before putting it to his lips, and set it back down on the table.

“You got anything stronger than coffee?”

It was a little early for Jonathan under normal circumstances, but he thought a little hair of the dog sounded good. They waited until the Swensons had picked Natalie up, even so. The Swensons would have her back by two or three in the afternoon.

With a steaming mug of spiked coffee firmly in hand, Lew told Jonathan everything. If nothing else—­and there was a lot else—­they were the only ­people on the planet the other was completely honest with. As they talked, they avoided The Monarch killings completely.

“So I guess we should get that van out of the driveway pretty damn soon,” Jonathan said. The only reason Kayla's father hadn't asked about it was because they'd covered it with a tarp. Jonathan could only imagine what a painful explanation that would have been.

“That would be a yes,” Lew said.

“Okay, I think I know where to dump it,” Jonathan said.

“Then we can talk about going to New York,” Lew said.

“Uh, going to New York?” Jonathan said. He hadn't even admitted to himself yet that the idea was swirling around in the back of his head. Mostly because it was simply impossible. And probably not that smart.

“Well, yeah. I know we've been tiptoeing around it like it's a big elephant in the corner, but why do you think I'm here? We have to go stop those murders. Both of us.” Lew said it so matter-­of-­factly that it sounded like he was saying you had to open the door before you walked through it.

“We do.”

“Natch.”

“But where exactly is Natalie in this grand plan of yours? Waiting in the car? What makes you even think we could find the killer? The FBI and the NYPD seem to be having a few difficulties in that department.”

“We're smarter than they are,” Lew said with a wink as he downed the rest of his drink.

“Well that's debatable, but I'm thinking having hundreds of agents and millions of dollars in computers and technology might be a bit of an advantage. Come on, Lew. Are you serious? 'Cause if you are, I think you might be using some of your friend's product.”

“He's not my friend. I just used him to get out of prison so I could come here. Obviously that was a mistake,” Lew said. The monotone voice and the way he kept his teeth clenched while he said it told Jonathan he was pushing too hard. If he wasn't careful Lew would go off to New York on his own. Which was about the only idea worse than them going together.

“Let's just calm down for a second,” Jonathan said. “First things first. We'll get rid of that blinking I-­just-­escaped-­from-­jail sign you call a van. Okay? We can talk on the way.”

“Fine,” Lew said, reaching for the scotch to reload his glass. Jonathan snatched it away from him. “Hey!”

“I'm thinking maybe you don't get a DUI on your first day out of prison,” Jonathan said.

“Whatever, Mom.”

 

13

New York City

8:30
A.M.
Local Time

T
HE STOREFRONT SIGN
said “Pioneer Electronics—­Since 1982,” but the sign in the window said “Closed.” Emily rapped on it lightly with her knuckles anyway. After a moment, a perturbed Asian face appeared in the window. When he saw Emily, he smiled.

“Come in, come in,” he said, waving at the air after he opened the door. Emily stepped into the dim computer repair shop and he shut the door behind her. His name, as far as she knew, was Raiden Pioneer, though he'd admitted long ago that he'd taken Pioneer from the sign that was on the shop when he bought it.

“I'm sorry for calling so late last night and for the short notice, Raiden,” Emily said, putting her bag on the counter. Bits and pieces of computers lying here or hanging there filled the small shop, but ironically the cash register that sat on the counter was the old nonelectronic type. Emily thought it fit in perfectly with Raiden. What you saw was definitely not what you got.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said, walking behind the counter. “It was a wonderful surprise to get your phone call last night. I've often thought about you over the past two years. You always brought me such challenges, and then poof, you disappeared. I'm happy you are well.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Emily said. Raiden had been vital to gathering information for
The Monarch's Reign
. She felt guilty about not staying in touch after the book was finished.

“Nonsense,” Raiden said. “We are alike, you and I. We have our secrets and we know how to keep them. Now, what can I do for you?”

She pulled out one of the limited edition hardcovers of
The Monarch's Reign
. It had a bookplate signed by her and an expensive leather binding and cover. Very few of them had sold, but they were Emily's favorite of all her book's editions. More importantly, they were also the biggest.

“Ah, how poetic,” Raiden said, eyeing the book. “What are we doing? Listening, following or watching?” Raiden asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Following,” Emily said. “With a twist. I have no idea where this will be when I need to find it, so if you can do it, I need something that I can follow, even if it's in the next state.”

“Hmm. Long distance. Not so easy. Or cheap,” Raiden said, examining the book. “You'll have to come back next—­” Emily slapped a packet of the bills from the metal case down on the counter.

“I need this in the next hour,” Emily said.

“If you have to, you'll be able to follow it to Iceland,” Raiden said, running his thumb across the bills.

She sighed and smiled.

“This is for a new book?” Raiden said, sounding excited. “A sequel, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Emily said. She just didn't know where she'd be writing it—­her apartment or prison.

 

14

Lost Lake, Florida

9:45
A.M.
Local Time

J
ONATHAN'S CAR BOUNCED
along the little-­used, unpaved road, overgrown branches from the old cypress trees along the side of the road slapping at the windshield as if trying to stop him. He couldn't blame them. He was about to dump a shot-­up van into their midst where it could rot and die.

He checked his rearview mirror and for a minute thought he'd lost Lew and the van, though there really wasn't anywhere to turn off. But if his car was having trouble with the uneven grade, he had no doubt the van was beating the hell out of his old friend. He couldn't help but smile at that idea. Though he knew he'd pay for it once they stopped, which would be in about two minutes if he remembered right.

He hadn't been down this road in over three years. The last time was with Samantha just before she'd gotten sick. Well, she'd always been sick, but this was just before it had started to show. Being a native of the area, Samantha knew all the nooks and crannies of the landscape, and it seemed that Florida had no shortage of nooks and crannies. Especially in the swamp forest region. It was state land, managed by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, but was an area so vast that in all the times he and Samantha had come here he'd never seen a ranger. Or another soul, for that matter.

Jonathan noticed that the temperature had dropped several degrees since they'd started down the road, which added to the feeling that they were now in a totally different world. But that feeling was par for the course when he was with Lew.

The guy was stubborn, and once he got something stuck in his head it rarely came out on its own. Jonathan knew the entire ride back, he was going to hear about Lew wanting to go to New York.

He understood why Lew was adamant about it. Lew Katchbrow had had a hard life. Aside from wanting to belong somewhere, Lew had wanted to make a difference in the world. To find a reason for being on this earth. Jonathan understood that all too well. But the fateful night they'd met in Bogotá had changed everything for both of them. What they did together in the following years was special. It had meant something, and he had to admit, if it wasn't for Samantha and Natalie, he'd probably still be doing it. And what this psycho in New York was doing to the symbol they'd chosen—­Jonathan, really—­was almost physically painful for him, so he could just imagine what Lew was feeling.

But in the end, there was Natalie, and nothing mattered now but her.

Finally, the car broke free of the forest's grasp and was bathed in warm morning sunshine. Jonathan drove a little farther across the sandy rim until he could see their destination below: Lost Lake. He parked and got out of the car, leaning on the side and staring out at the lake while he waited for Lew and the van. It was only a minute or two before Lew came roaring out of the trees. He skidded to a stop and seemed to hunch over the wheel catching his breath. Jonathan suppressed a smile.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lew said, getting out of the van and slamming the door. “Are we dumping the van or just beating it into submission?”

Jonathan knew Lew had more to say, but when he got close enough to see the lake behind Jonathan the frustration fell from his face. A look of awe replaced it and he was quiet while he tried to take in the panorama before him.

“Jesus,” Lew said quietly, emotion in his voice. This place had that effect on ­people. Jonathan wondered if maybe that wasn't the real reason he'd brought Lew here. It was one of those places you had to share with someone, but just one person. Jonathan had lost his previous confidant. And now he had another. “Are you sure you want to dump it here?”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Jonathan said, tossing a rock over the edge into the lake. “It's a crater lake. Almost a hundred feet deep.”

Lew whistled. “Let's get going, then.”

They drove around the rim of the crater, albeit much slower than they had driven through the forest, until they were on a cliff high over the deep end of the lake. Jonathan found a large rock on the edge of the forest and wedged it onto the accelerator while the van was running in neutral. The engine revved like a screaming banshee.

“You want the honors?” Jonathan asked Lew, backing away.

“Why not?” Lew said. He made sure the wheels were straight and then reached in and grabbed the gearshift, leaning his weight out of the van so he wouldn't go with it. “I christen thee the USS
Get
Me
the
Hell
Out
of
Dodge
,” Lew said before he slapped the shifter into drive and jumped out of the way.

The tires spun in the sand for a bit, but then the rubber dug in and the shot-­up van took off, its engine sounding happy to be doing what it was supposed to do. It picked up speed and launched itself off the edge, sand smoking off the tires in an arc as it flew to its end with a tremendous splash.

They ran to the edge of the cliff to watch it. The van bobbed up and down as the ripples worked their way out and back from the landing zone. It turned on its side and for a moment they were afraid it wouldn't sink, but then with a
glurg
, the vehicle filled with water and went down nose first.

As it sank out of view, Jonathan realized he hadn't done anything like this since, well, since he'd given it all up for Samantha. He wasn't sorry in the least, but Samantha was gone. Natalie needed him and he needed her, but if he didn't do something with himself—­something that made him feel like this—­it wouldn't be long before Natalie would want nothing to do with her lifeless father.

“I'll do it,” Jonathan said, continuing to stare at the lake.

“Do what?” Lew asked.

“Go to New York.”

“Yes!” Lew said, putting his arm around his friend and giving him a half hug as they continued to watch the lake ripple. “I knew you—­”

“This can't touch Natalie in the slightest. I mean it,” Jonathan said sternly, waggling a finger at Lew.

“Of course. Of course. Come on, this is Uncle Lew you're talking to,” Lew said.

Just then something bobbed up from under the surface of the lake. They both leaned in and realized it was the pine coffin from the back of the van. The bullet holes had made it a boat of sorts and it sat pristine on top of the water. Jonathan slowly turned and looked at Lew.

“Let's pretend we didn't see that,” Lew said.

“Works for me.”