The Strivers' Row Spy (35 page)

I
SLOWED DOWN AND PULLED OVER, SHARPLY TURNING THE WHEEL
until the car was facing the lighthouse. Then I drove several yards into the open field and parked, leaving the headlights on to help me see the beginning of my walk path. I also wanted Drake and company to spot the empty car—to follow me.

Stepping out into the snowy vegetation, bag in hand, I headed straight for the tower. It wasn't long before my headlights faded away and I felt my feet getting wet and numbingly cold. But I pushed forward, the ever-so-slight glow of the powerful slow-flicking light allowing me brief moments to barely make out the contours of things.

I'd been walking for maybe half an hour when I felt the vegetation turn to uneven rock, forcing me to move even slower. With every careful step I took the fog grew thicker, the sound of crashing waves a bit louder.

The rock was gone now and the frosty shrub-like surface began to ramp downward. I squatted and grabbed at the long marram grass for balance and eased down into what was most likely a sand-filled gully—currently covered in snow.

I stood at the base and blew on my hands. I'd probably descended about ten feet, but the dark had made it feel like twenty. I began the climb up, using the marram grass as if it were rope. My patent leather shoes weren't helping matters, as with each long upward lunge, I slipped, even taking in a mouthful of snow a few times.

At the top of the gully was a wire fence. Without hesitation I thumb-hooked the handle on my bag and began to climb, clawing at the wire, digging my shoes into the diamond-shaped openings for leverage. At the top I clutched the frozen, horizontal bar, flipped one leg over, and straddled the high fence for a moment, trying to keep my balance. I had one hand in front of me, the other behind, and could feel the sharp edges of wire just above the bar, cutting at the crotch of my pants. As I looked out at the darkness from where I'd come, a tiny moving light appeared. One of them had a flashlight.

I climbed down the other side and continued on. I could now make out two distinctly different beams of light ahead—one flashing, the other fixed—obviously signifying two towers. Pushing my way through a patch of high, thick bushes, I tried to protect my face from the bare, stubborn branches. Wasn't long before I exited the other side and began moving through an open field.

The crashing waves grew louder, and though the tower beams were pointing in the other direction, their powerful glow seeped through the thick fog the way a full moon might. I hoped to reach shelter before one of them stepped out from the bushes behind me.

The closer I got, the more defined the setting became. The towers were about three hundred yards apart and each had a large house attached to it. Situated about halfway between the lighthouses were two smaller sheds.

I was running at full speed now and wondered if the keepers' families might be asleep in their respective living quarters. Even if they were, whatever noise might ensue would go unnoticed, as the violent sound of crashing waves would drown it out. A big storm was surely approaching.

I skidded to a stop near the larger shed on the right and turned around. No sight of them. Trying to catch my breath, heart pounding, throat and lungs burning so much I could taste blood, I circled around until I was out of sight.

Approaching the shed door, I saw a lantern hanging to the left, along with a matchbox. The wind was too heavy to light it outside, so I tried to enter the shed first, but the door was locked. Still, with the absence of a padlock, I kicked the area above the knob twice, easily breaking the lever away from the frame and flinging the door open.

With only darkness inside, I grabbed the hanging lantern and matchbox and entered. Kneeling down, I struck a stick, lit the wick, and stood again. The lantern leading me now, I stepped forward and saw the illuminated front end of a green tractor. I glided the lantern to the left where a big, silver snowplow was parked. Both vehicles were plausible hiding places, but not ideal.

Shutting the door, I stepped to the right where several small rowboats were stacked to the ceiling. The shed was at least fifteen feet high. I walked around the boats toward the back where piles of rope could be seen along the entire wall. As I got closer, I realized they were actually breeches buoys.

I eased my way along the back wall toward the opposite corner behind the snowplow. Pushing away some dusty spider webs, I squatted down, placed the lantern in front of me, and took out my pistol.

I opened my bag, removed a box of bullets, and emptied it into my coat pocket. Out of pure impulse, I also removed the magazine—even though I knew it was full—took its bullets out, and held them in my hand. For some reason, this simple act was reassuring. As I reinserted the first one, I felt its tip and imagined whose chest it might enter.

Beads of sweat began dripping on my fingers and my hand was shaking. In fact, the nerves throughout my body were beginning to dance, so I finished, popped the magazine back in, blew out the lantern, and listened for the door to open.

My gut told me that the four of them would split up—perhaps Drake to one tower, Bingo to the other, while Goat and Cleo each picked a shed. But if they decided to stay together, my chances would be slim.

I waited several minutes and—nothing. Each time I thought I heard a creaky hinge I flinched and pointed my gun at the darkness. But it was my racing mind fooling me.

Then, the faint sound of crashing waves slowly grew louder, as if the volume knob on a record player were being turned up. The loudness then faded back down. I could hear walking on the opposite side.

Leaving my bag, I stood and crept alongside the snowplow until I reached the front wall. I got on all fours and crawled to the door, then opened and slammed it, prompting whoever it was to fire two shots at nothing while I backed up again.

Pistol aimed straight ahead at blackness, I listened to him retrace his footsteps. He stopped and opened the door, the soft light from outside bringing his image to life. It was Goat.

He stood there for a moment looking out. Then, as if he could somehow see my dark image out of the corner of his eye, he spun right and attempted to shoot. But his motion wasn't quick enough, because before he could pull the trigger, I fired twice at his head, dropping him instantly.

Rushing to his body, I took the contents from his coat pockets and placed them in mine. Standing, I peeked my head through the doorframe and scanned the outside, making sure the attached house to my left still had its lights off. So far, I was in luck.

Surveying the entire landscape, I tried to calculate distances. One lighthouse was about 150 yards to the right, the other, the same distance to the left. Assuming an SIS man was in each tower, it would take them quite a bit of time to finish climbing the respective inner stairwells. Each tower appeared to be about seventy feet high.

I began a slow trot toward the other shed about thirty yards to the left. I'd taken about ten strides when I saw a flashlight appear from the doorway. I stopped as he turned and shined it directly at me. Before he could make me out I aimed and fired one shot. The flashlight fell to the ground, and he cried out. I waited for any movement. None. I cautiously continued forward.

Approaching the injured body, I picked up the flashlight and shined it at his face. It was Cleo. My bullet had entered his stomach and he was coughing up blood, trying to lift his head. As he struggled to breathe, steam rose from the blood oozing out of his gut.

I looked at his right hand and saw that he hadn't released his pistol. As if summoning up one last bit of strength, he clutched and lifted it, attempting to fire a final shot. Watching him struggle, I unloaded two more slugs into his chest, finishing him.

With the flashlight aiding me, I took the items from his pockets before reloading my magazine. My head was on a swivel, and with no one approaching in either direction, I began dragging his body inside the dark, kerosene-smelling shed.

Moments later when I arrived at the left tower, the thick, heavy, cast-iron door was shut. Rather than pulling it open, I contemplated whether Bingo or Drake might be standing just inside. There was a fifty-fifty chance, but I needed to move fast before one of the two arrived from the opposite tower.

I turned the flashlight off, grabbed the coarse vertical handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. Pulling it shut, I stood there in the dark. It was silent. Then, from high above, the faint echoing sound of hard-soled shoes began lightly tapping the iron steps.

Stepping forward, I felt my way onto the winding stairwell, then stopped again and listened, unsure whether he was ascending or descending. It dawned on me that Cleo had likely been the only one carrying a flashlight.
Why not pretend to be him?

The footsteps were indeed descending, so I turned the flashlight on and started climbing, stopping after about five steps.

“You get him, nigga?” I asked in my best high-pitched Cleo voice, all the while shining the flashlight upward.

“Is that you, Cleo?” he asked. It was Bingo.

“Don't be a damn fool,” I replied. “Who the one been carryin' the light? That keeper up there see you?”

“Nah!” he said.

“I asked you if you got him.”

“He ain't in here,” he said.

“Then Drake musta shot that fool in the other tower . . . 'cause he wadn't in nary one of them shacks.”

“Where's Goat?” he asked, still circling down the narrow stairwell.

“He went on to the other tower. We best join 'em.”

“Get that light out my face,” he said, covering his eyes with one hand and reaching to grab the flashlight with the other.

I fired a shot, spinning him around, forcing him to fall on top of me. He dropped his gun and I dropped the flashlight. Both went clanking down the stairs. With him clutching my coat at the shoulders, the two of us tumbled down the bottom few steps until we came to a stop at the base, but not before I banged my head against the rail. The flashlight lay right next to us, reflecting off the wall enough for him to see my face.

“Son of a bitch!” he groaned, the two of us tangled together.

I rolled away and tried to shoot, but he grabbed my wrist and kept my arm extended. I was disoriented from hitting the rail, and he was able to slam my hand against the bottom step several times until I released the gun. He then kicked it away, sending it flying against the door until it came to rest next to his.

I violently shook my head, trying to fight off the dizziness and get up, but he jumped me and delivered several heavy punches to my face, damn near putting me away. Instead, I kneed him between the legs and he fell away.

Crawling on all fours, I tried to go for my gun, but he took a knife from his coat and stuck it in the back of my right calf—the force so great it stopped my forward motion as he leaped on my back. I lay there face down, stiff as a board, his left arm wrapped around my neck, his right hand reaching for the embedded knife. But I was able to reach back and beat him to it.

As I yanked it from my calf, he clutched my fist and kept it pressed against the ground along my side. I couldn't move my legs, the weight of his body too much, both of his knees digging into my hips. He began pulling me back by the neck, bowing my spine until it felt as though it might snap.

When he'd bent me as far as I could bend, he tried repositioning himself in order to gain more leverage. Inching his knees farther down my legs, he unknowingly loosened his grip around my neck just enough for me to fling my head back into his nose. As he let go, I rolled over and cracked him in the jaw with my left elbow, thrusting him back against the bottom step. Quickly getting to my feet, I stepped back and he stood.

With the flashlight lying on the floor about halfway between us, we sucked air and waited for the other to make a move. Behind me some ten feet back by the door were our guns. He couldn't risk trying to get by me, and I certainly didn't want to turn my back on him. The knife would have to settle things.

As he turned and raced up the stairs, I scooped up the flashlight and followed. Despite the leg gash, I continued climbing, certain that I was simply stronger and physically superior to him.

After winding up about twenty steps, he realized I was gaining and turned to confront me. He swung his right fist, which I ducked, then a left, which I sidestepped—all of my motion causing the flashlight to flicker in every direction. Then, as he revved back to swing another right, I stepped up and drove the knife into his chest, holding it there as he cried out. I could feel the blade cutting through the bone as he desperately gasped and grabbed at the knife with both hands.

“Just call this protocol,” I said, looking him dead in the eye.

While I focused on keeping my footing some three steps below him, his arms fell limp. Slowly he leaned downward and began to softly hug me, struggling to take his last sips of breath, his weight forcing the blade to cut deeper and deeper in until I began easing him down to a seated position on one of the steps in between us. I pulled the knife out and tilted him onto his side so he wouldn't go tumbling down.

Pointing the flashlight at each of his pockets, I found nothing except a stick of gum, some cigarettes, and a box of matches. The pain in my calf growing more intense, I put the knife down, sat beside him, lifted the bottom of my pants, and shined the light on what was a two-inch long gash. It looked deep and was bleeding considerably.

I set the flashlight down, undid Bingo's necktie, and wrapped it around my wound several times, pulling it as tightly as possible before tying it off. Taking the knife and flashlight again, I stood and began limping downstairs. But after only a few steps, I heard the door open. Drake had likely arrived.