Twenty-Six
Carrington removed a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket and handed it to Tom.
“What’s next is up to you. I was contacted by Savelle this morning, told to give you this address and send you there.”
Tom didn’t unfold the paper.
“Why didn’t she contact me with this herself?” Tom said. “And why get you directly involved like this?”
“Those were my first thoughts, too. Raveis employs a chain of command. Actually, it’s more like a chain of evidence, to keep him removed from any and all activities.”
“So this is from Raveis.”
“Via Savelle, yes.” Carrington paused. “Raveis needs his buffer and Savelle understands better than anyone that no form of electronic communication is completely safe, so a good old-fashioned courier was their only option. Sending me keeps it in the family, if you will. And saves her from having to risk meeting with you in public again.”
Tom unfolded the paper and read the address.
“What is this place?”
“After his legal troubles with his family ended, Cahill apparently disappeared for six months. I mean, he completely fell off the radar. One morning he left New York City by bus and didn’t make another blip till he showed up in Detroit six months later. You’ve been living a quiet life since your discharge, Tom, but you still left a trail. Your cell phone use, as limited as it was, and the books you downloaded to your Kindle—those two things alone can tell anyone with resources where you were at any given time. And a pattern of movement can easily be drawn from that information. Add to that the fact that you withdrew money from ATMs and drove your pickup through tollbooths—in full view of security cameras in both instances. So you know that disappearing completely is no easy thing. Cahill didn’t just wander off into the wilderness for six months, Tom. He went deep and stayed deep.”
Tom thought of his own long recovery and gradual reentry into the world.
Rebuilding himself piece by piece, hour by hour, day by day—not just the tissue that had been torn and sewn back together, but his mind and soul.
His spirit, his very being.
And the injuries he had sustained were nothing compared to Cahill’s.
Tom looked once more at the paper.
“So what does Cahill’s disappearance have to do with this address?”
“He left a trail in every city he has lived in since Detroit, including New Haven. But about a month ago, that trail abruptly ended. He moved out of the apartment he’d been renting—in one of the poorest parts of the city, by the way. He abandoned the vehicle he’d been leasing in a parking garage, his spot paid up for a full year. The witnesses at the motel said he drove off in a Jeep Wrangler, but no such vehicle is registered to him and no Jeep was stolen from any of the motel’s guests or employees. It’s likely he paid for it with cash and used a false ID to register it. Something is up, Tom. Something happened that made him suddenly go dark. Or maybe something is about to happen. Then two nights ago someone somehow tracked him to that motel. You know the rest.”
“When did you learn all this?”
“A few hours ago.”
“Savelle told you.”
“Yes.” He paused. “She seems a little more forthcoming suddenly.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s just a hunch, but if Raveis is the reason she was almost killed last night, then maybe she’s having second thoughts about whatever it is he’s involved in. And has her involved in.” He paused again. “If you ask me, she sounded scared. Very scared.”
“So this is the address of the apartment Cahill moved out of?” Tom said.
“No. One of Raveis’s teams went through that, found nothing. It was like Cahill had scoured the place before he left. As for where he went from there, where he’s been living for the past month, no one seems to know. He did, however, establish a safe house. A secret place he could go to if he needed, where he could keep emergency supplies, lay low for a time in, or bug out from. This is the address of that place.”
“Savelle told you this?”
“Yes.”
“If it’s a secret, how does she know about it?”
“I didn’t ask. And she didn’t offer.”
Tom took a minute. “Why would Cahill need a safe house?” he said finally.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it, Tom? I mean, who does that, right? And where did he learn the skills needed to go dark? Completely dark. That’s not something Recon Marines specialize in. We’re talking tradecraft. And where did he go that first time he went dark? Where was he for those six months?”
“You think Cahill is some kind of operative.”
“Historically speaking, a charity makes the perfect cover for any number of clandestine activities. And Cahill is a recruiter’s dream. Ivy League education, former Recon Marine, independently wealthy. But whose operative? That’s what I’d like to know. Government? If so, ours or someone else’s? And of course, as we both know, corporations have their own security forces. Their own private armies. What a lot of people don’t know is that they have their own special activities divisions, too. Their own mini-intelligence agencies, their own black ops squads. That could explain why Raveis is so interested in finding Cahill.”
“He works for Raveis.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he works for one of Raveis’s rivals. It’s possible he knows something about Raveis that Raveis doesn’t want known.”
“In which case I’m the friendly face that draws him into the open.”
Carrington nodded. “And leads his enemy right to him.”
Tom processed all of this, then looked at the address again: 190 Front Street, New Haven.
“Do you know the area?” Carrington asked.
Tom nodded. “Yeah. It’s by the Quinnipiac River on the western edge of the city. The neighborhood is a mix of old industrial buildings and prewar cottages with some newer condos crammed in. I remember that it had more than its share of derelict buildings, which I’m guessing would make for a good safe house, right?”
Carrington smiled. “How did a freshman from Yale make his way to a neighborhood like that?”
“I was in love with an art major. She and some other students rented studio space in an old factory there.”
“Easier times,” Carrington said.
Tom nodded.
Carrington smiled, then said, “I looked up the address on Google Earth and it appears to be an old machine shop or something. A two-story brick front with a one-and-a-half-story loading dock and bay door behind it. It’s right on the edge of the river. The windows are painted over and the parking area is covered with grass, so it’s likely Cahill chose the place because it wasn’t currently in use.”
“Any kind of security system?”
“I was told there are no active utilities. No phone or electricity means no alarm.”
“And Savelle wants me to head down there now,” Tom said.
Carrington shook his head. “Like I said, our next move is up to you. If you go, I’m not sending you alone. Simpson and Hammerton will drive you and go in with you. They’ll be with you all the way.”
Tom glanced at the man standing a good fifty feet away. The leather coat, heavy-duty boots, and mirrored aviator glasses were overkill, there was no doubt about that.
In general, Tom only trusted men who didn’t call attention to themselves.
But if Carrington trusted him, then so would he.
Looking back at Carrington, Tom said, “I’d need to get something from my truck first.”
“The Colt Stella gave you.”
Tom had almost forgotten about the invasion of his and Stella’s privacy.
The information, private and otherwise, that Carrington now possessed.
And the change in Carrington’s character that small betrayal denoted.
“Yeah, the Colt,” Tom answered.
“Simpson has a sidearm for you. You probably know this already, but every Colt issued during Korea and Vietnam was purchased by the government prior to 1945. I’d rather if it comes down to it that your life didn’t depend on a relic from seventy years ago.” Carrington took a breath, let it out, then said, “This shouldn’t take long. Just get in, have a look around, then get out and report back to me. Standard recon.”
“What is it I’m looking for?”
“According to Savelle, you’re looking for any indication that Cahill went there after he was attacked. If he did, then maybe you can find something that tells us where he went from there.”
“Okay,” Tom said. “But what am I really looking for?”
“There are some things no one seems to want to talk about, Tom. One is the possibility that Cahill’s wound was worse than anyone thinks. The other is that there has been no sign of the woman he was with. You might walk into that place and find two corpses. Or worse, one corpse and one armed and mentally unstable special operator.”
“In which case, I’d at least have a shot at bringing him out,” Tom said. “In theory, anyway.”
“It’s a bad situation, I know. You’ve faced worse, though. My gut tells me that Cahill is long gone and this will turn out to be a big waste of time. But the more it looks to Raveis like we’re on board—the more we do things his way—the better, don’t you agree?”
Tom nodded. “I do, yeah.”
Carrington paused. “It was smart of you to stay out of this business, Tom. When I first started, all I could see were the differences between me and a man like Raveis. But then you find yourself doing things you never thought you’d do. Caring less about things that used to matter because no one else seems to care. And that’s the moment you start to see all those precious differences slip away.”
“So get out,” Tom said. “Walk away.”
“It’s too late for that. I made my deal with the devil. But it’s not too late for you.”
“What are you saying?”
“You need to help Cahill. You owe him, I get that. I’ll do what I can to help you, and if in the process Raveis shows his hand in a way that helps me, then so be it.”
“Helps you how?”
“The less you know the better.”
Tom said nothing at first.
What was there for him to say?
Carrington was right; the less Tom knew, the better off he’d be.
“How should I contact you after I’ve searched the place?”
“I won’t be far away. Hammerton will bring you to me after. Face-to-face communications between us from now on only, okay? But if something happens and you get separated from my men, for whatever reason, send me a text with the year Tallmadge here died and I’ll reply with a safe location where we can meet.”
“Okay. I probably shouldn’t leave my truck here, though.”
“There’s a commuter lot by the entrance to the highway. You can park it there. And I’m assuming you and Stella have clean cell phones.”
“Yes.”
“How clean?”
“So far we’ve only used them to text each other a few times.”
“When?”
“Last night. The phones weren’t activated till a few hours before that.”
“They should still be good, then. Don’t use that phone to contact me, though. No matter what happens, okay? It will keep that phone clean, which will help keep Stella safe.”
Tom nodded. “Thanks.”
“Call her now,” Carrington said. “Tell her to find out what she can about the boxing coach. I’ll look into it, too. When you’re done, meet you by the vehicles.”
Tom nodded, but Carrington stayed where he was.
“If Cahill is black ops, Tom, then he’s a dangerous man. And if Raveis has other men looking for him, then they’re just as dangerous. You don’t use sheep to hunt a wolf. Keep your eyes open, okay? Trust your gut. If you see something you don’t like, just get the hell out of there. Cahill may not be the man you remember. Wounds can change a person. Physical and otherwise.” Carrington paused. “Don’t forget that before he turned traitor, Benedict Arnold was a hero of the Revolution. He betrayed everyone he knew—everyone he had fought beside, everything he had fought for—not for money or ideals but out of pride. Injuries and insults eventually became too much for him to bear.” Carrington shrugged. “Maybe Cahill resents what serving his country has cost him. Maybe he feels forgotten or neglected. It happens, right?”
Tom knew that it did.
Though his own stay in the hospital was relatively brief, he’d seen men who were broken in every way possible.
“Make your call, Tom.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “I think it’s going to rain any minute now, so you’d better hurry.”
As Carrington began walking away, he waved for Simpson to follow him.
Tom wondered if this offer of privacy was Carrington’s way of making up for having eavesdropped on Stella and him.
The bodyguard followed Carrington toward where the vehicles were parked.
Alone at the gravesite, Tom called Stella. He relayed to her what Carrington had said about the boxing coach.
“You won’t believe this, but I just found him,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I just got off the phone with Taft. I told them my son had been a student there and I was looking for his old boxing coach. They transferred me to the athletic director, and he told me everything I needed to know.”
“What did you find out?”
“The boxing coach was Richard Mercer. He was
also
the school’s resident physician.”
“You said his name
was
Richard Mercer. Are you telling me he’s dead?”
“He passed away four years ago.”
“Shit.”
“I know. He would have been our guy; he fit the bill perfectly. Medical training, trusted friend, located an hour from where Cahill was shot. And he had been a doctor with the marines in Vietnam, so that might explain why Cahill joined up after he graduated college. I really thought we’d found him.”
Tom fell silent for a moment.
“You still there?” Stella said.
“Yeah.”
“What should I do now?”
“I don’t know. Did you eat?”
“Not yet.”
“Order something in. I won’t be long. And don’t worry about me, okay?”
“Ditto. Let me know when you’re on your way back, if you can.”
“I will.”
Another moment of silence, and then Stella said, “I love you, Tom.”
“I love you, too.”
They ended the call and Tom began walking toward the cemetery’s entrance.
As it came into his view, he saw that one of the SUVs had already gone.