The Devils Punchbowl pc-3 Read online

  “I think it’s worse. And the nausea’s worse. I vomited twice after I called you.”

  “Wonderful.” Dad glances toward the bathroom counter. Between the two sinks are the articles I assembled while I waited for him: my keys; a black Nike warm-up suit and running shoes; Annie’s MacBook computer, booted up with Microsoft Word on the screen; a Springfield XD nine-millimeter pistol, and a short-barreled .357 Magnum. “I brought you some Ativan,” he says, “but I want to listen to your chest first.”

  “Do you mind if I get in the bathtub? I want to clean myself up.”

  “That'’s fine. Just get your shirt off.”

  I nod and turn on the cold-water tap, then strip off my clothes and pull on the warm-up suit. Dad moves in front of the computer as I pull on the top and pecks out the words

  What the hell is going on?

  He steps aside for me to type my response, and we begin a sort of waltz in place, during which I explain our dilemma. He always typed much slower than I, but it’s worse now because of his hands; it hurts to watch him struggle to strike the keys.

  Tim Jessup was murdered tonight. It has to do with his work at one of the casinos. The man behind his death just threatened to kill Annie. The motive is too complex to explain like this. They threatened Mom’s life, and yours too. Even Jenny, and she’s on the other side of the Atlantic.

  Who are these people?

  People I misread very badly.

  They really killed Jack Jessup’s boy?

  I left his body under the bluff an hour ago. I think they tortured him.

  Christ. Do the police know?

  Yes, but I'm not sure I can trust them. One word in the wrong ear, and these people take or kill Annie. They have a lot to lose.

  What about FBI?

  First priority is getting Annie and Mom to safety. We’'ve learned that the hard way, haven'’t we?

  Dad nods slowly, and I know his memories mirror my own: I see the house that he and my mother lived in for thirty years going up in flames, and the maid who raised me and my sister in agony on a table in the emergency room.

  “Take a deep breath,” Dad says in his medical voice, as though

  he’s listening to my heart with his stethoscope. “Again okay again.”

  There’s only one real option,

  I type.

  I'm going to call Daniel Kelly’s firm in Houston. Blackhawk. With any luck they’ll be able to send a team our way almost immediately. They’ll take Mom and Annie somewhere safe—to an actual safe house, just like the movies.

  Dad’s face goes through subtle changes of expression as he absorbs all this, but in a short while he nods and types again.

  All right. What about Kelly himself?

  He’s in Afghanistan.

  Where do the girls go? Houston?

  I'm not sure. But wherever it is, you should go with them.

  His contemptuous expression tells me his answer to this, but he types:

  Kelly’s people will take better care of them than I could, and I have three patients dying right now. One in hospice and two in the hospital. I'm not going anywhere. You haven'’t called Kelly’s people yet?

  I have to leave the house for that. Was waiting for you.

  Where are you going?

  Not far. I should be back within 15 minutes, but don'’t panic unless I'm gone an hour.

  He digests this, then types:

  What if somebody tries to break in while you’re gone? Is that what the guns are for?

  I pick up the big revolver and slip it into his arthritic hands.

  Can you still fire a pistol?

  He eyes his crooked fingers doubtfully.

  If they bust in here, I guess we’ll see. It can’t be any harder than giving a goddamn prostate exam. You don'’t have a shotgun, do you?

  Sorry. Wish I did.

  He shrugs philosophically.

  If someone does come, shoot before you talk. I'’ll come running, and I should get here fast enough to be of help.

  Dad sucks his teeth for a few seconds, and I know he’s thinking of options. With a grunt he bends and types:

  There are a couple of guys I could call to help out. Old patients. Ex-cops.

  Not this time. The bad guys might believe I panicked and called

  you for some Ativan, but if anybody else shows up, we’re asking for trouble. We have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  Dad shakes his head and types:

  Like Matt Dillon and Festus spending the night at the Dodge City jail, by God.

  That'’s about the size of it. I figure you’re more Doc Adams than Festus.

  I'm older than Milburn Stone ever got on that show, I'm afraid.

  I smile, then type:

  I still trust you with Annie’s life.

  Something hard and implacable comes into my father’s eyes as he reads the words, and I know that the first person who tries to break into my house will take a lethal bullet from a man who knows exactly where to aim.

  I'm going now,

  I type.

  Hope for 10 minutes, but give me an hour.

  “You’re heartbeat’s slowing a little,” Dad says. “How do you feel?”

  “Better. I think I just want to sit here in the tub awhile.”

  He nods understanding. “I'’ll just go watch some TV in the den. If the nausea doesn’'t ease up, give a yell, and I'’ll give you a shot of Vistaril.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Jesus, this really scared me.”

  “Don’t thank me. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

  I start to walk past him, but he grips my arm with startling force, pulls me back to the MacBook, and types:

  What if you don'’t come back?

  He’s right to ask. If I leave this house, no matter how stealthy I try to be, I might be signing my death warrant.

  If I don'’t come back, I'm dead or taken. Call 911 and start screaming there’s a home invasion in progress. Then call every cop you ever treated and put a ring of steel around this house.

  I start to leave, but then I add,

  And raise Annie like you know I would. Like you raised me.

  He stares at the screen for a long time, and I see his jaw muscles flexing. Then he shakes his head and types:

  Go fetch the cavalry, Matthew. I'’ll hold the fort.

  I use the rear basement window to leave my house. The lower halves of those windows sit in a narrow concrete moat that sur

  rounds the house, and I am thankful for it tonight. I see no one as I sneak out of my backyard, but as I prepare to slip across Washington Street two blocks from my house, a cigarette flares at the corner of my block, illuminating the pale moon of a beardless face. Knowing the watcher will be night-blind for a few moments, I dart across the road and into the foliage of a neighbor’s yard.

  My destination is Caitlin’s guesthouse, a renovated servants’ quarters that can be opened with the same key that opens her front door. I move carefully between my neighbors’ homes, using my knowledge of pets and gardens to steer clear of problems. When I reach Caitlin’s backyard, I experience a moment of panic, thinking she returned while I was making my way here, but what I thought was her car is simply three garbage cans lined up for collection.

  A rush of mildewed air hits me when I open the guesthouse door. Leaving the lights off, I move carefully across the dark den, toward the glowing red light in the kitchenette. With all hope suspended, I lift the cordless phone and press the ON button. A steady dial tone comes to me like a lifeline thrown into a black ocean.

  Taking my cell phone from my pocket, I check its memory for the number of Kelly’s employer in Houston, then enter it into the cordless landline. The phone rings twice, then a cool female voice answers, “Blackhawk Risk Management.” She’s wide-awake at two thirty in the morning, and this gives me some confidence.

  “This is Penn Cage calling. I was given this number by Daniel Kelly. He’s a personal friend.”

  “Yes, thank you. Did Mr. Kelly give you a code word?”

  I close my eyes in silent thanks to Kelly. “It’
s been some time, but he once told me to say

  Spartacus

  if I had an emergency and couldn'’t reach him.”

  “Thank you, transferring you now. Please remain on the line.”

  There’s no hold music, only a hiss cut short by a squawk. A male voice says, “Call me Bill, Mr. Cage. Dan Kelly is on assignment at this time. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “It’s life or death. I wouldn'’t call otherwise.”

  Bill seems unfazed by this; he continues speaking with the practiced calm of a fighter pilot. “Are you in danger now?”

  “Yes, but I can talk.”

  “How can we help?”

  “I'm in Natchez, Mississippi. Five fifty Washington Street, a residence. My family has been threatened by men who committed murder tonight. I'm not sure I can trust the police. I need someone to take my mother and daughter to a safe location. Can you do that?”

  The pause is brief. “We can do that. We have some operators arriving for Stateside rotation, and we can send a team. What’s the time frame?”

  “How soon can they be here?”

  “Seven hours by road. Our company planes are committed at this time. If danger is imminent, I can charter a jet, but cost may become a factor to you at that point.”

  I think quickly. If Jonathan Sands has somehow overheard this call, he can retaliate even before a jet gets here. Annie’s safety lies in my getting back to my house unseen and playing out my bluff. “Cost is no object, but seven hours will work fine.”

  “You’ll have a team at your front door in seven hours or less. Have the packages ready.”

  “I will.”

  “Should we expect opposition?”

  “I think the opposition will be too surprised to act quickly. But your men should be ready just in case.”

  “Understood. Mr. Cage, while we were talking, I messaged Dan Kelly via secure digital link. His reply says that if you can remain at your present number, he will call you within thirty minutes.”

  I stand and pace the floor of the guesthouse in the dark. “I can do that. But under no circumstances should Kelly try to call my cell phone or home phones. Those are compromised. It’s this line or nothing.”

  “Understood. We’ll see you in seven hours. Six, if we can manage it. Stay well.”

  I feel a rush of relief so powerful that my face goes hot. “Thank you.”

  Waiting in the dark with my hand on the phone, I sense the fragility of those who matter most to me, as though they'’re barely clinging to the planet as it spins through its orbit: my mother and daughter sleeping across the street with only my aging father to pro

  tect them; my sister in England, going through her day without even a hint that she could be in danger; Julia Jessup hiding in or near the city, or running for her life with a fatherless child to protect. Swirling around them are people whose paths I can neither control nor predict: the men watching my house, who may realize I'm gone and call their master; Caitlin, who might return at any moment and discover me; Sands himself, who might decide he can’t trust me after all and consign me and mine to Tim Jessup’s fate.

  The half hour I must wait for Kelly’s call is measured in clenching heartbeats, rapid-fire eyeblinks, startle reflexes, sudden bowel constrictions, and drops of sweat. When I don'’t see the ghostly white dog peering at me through the guesthouse window, I see images of my friend’s brutalized body, or his wife and young son hiding in terror and grief. Strangest of all is my memory of last night’s dream of Tim on the ice sheet, and the white wolf watching me. How did I dream of an animal I’d never seen before? Or

  have

  I seen that white dog around town somewhere, perhaps even with Sands, and stored the memory in some reptilian neurons, where they waited to be triggered by Tim’s twisted tale?

  When the phone rings, I jerk it to my ear so fast the chirp fades almost before it’s begun.

  “Hello? Hello!”

  There’s only silence at first. Then Kelly’s voice comes into the receiver as though it’s being transmitted from a distant spacecraft. “What’s happening, man? Somebody threatened Annie?”

  “Jesus, Kelly, it’s great to hear your voice. We’re in trouble here. They threatened Annie, my parents, my sister, everybody. They already killed a friend of mine tonight. A guy I went to school with.”

  “Slow down. Are you safe where you are?”

  “Yeah, but I don'’t have much time. Are you still in Afghanistan?”

  “Yeah. The mountains. Look, talk to me. Who’s your problem?”

  “The main guy is Irish. He runs one of the casinos here. He pretends to be English, but that’s just a front. He goes by the name of Jonathan Sands. I have no idea who he really is. Paramilitary type, but hiding it in a suit.”

  “I don'’t like the sound of that,” Kelly says reflectively. “Ex-IRA, maybe?”

  “He definitely knows how to handle weapons.”

  “What the hell have you got into?”

  “I'm not sure. But I didn't take it seriously enough at first, and a friend died because of it. According to him, I can’t use conventional law enforcement. Sands has got a lot of people on his payroll.”

  There’s a long silence. Then Kelly says, “It could take forty-eight hours.”

  “What could?”

  “Me getting there. The company will get Annie and your mother sorted out, but it could take me two days to get back to the States.”

  “Dan are you sure?”

  “Hey, it’s only money.”

  “You know I'’ll—”

  “Shut the fuck up, okay? Before you embarrass both of us. And try to keep breathing for the next forty-eight hours.”

  “I'’ll do my best. Look, you can’t call me, okay?”

  “Understood. The Blackhawk team is going to bring you a secure telephone. A satellite phone. You’ll have to decide when it’s safe to use it. Update the company when you can. Just keep using

  Spartacus

  as your code. They’re also going to bring a gear bag. That'’s for me. I'’ll have them stash it somewhere in town, and you can pick it up if you’re not being tailed.”

  “Okay. Daniel—”

  “Hold up. If you get in a really tight spot after the team leaves and before I get there, there’s couple of guys in your area I trust. They’re from Athens Point, down the river.”

  “Who are they?”

  “One’s a young guy, ex-marine. Carl Sims. Met him at the range there. He’s a black guy, a sniper. I don'’t care what you’re mixed up in, use my name, you can trust him.”

  “Okay. Who else?”

  “There’s a guy used to fly for the sheriff down there at Athens Point. Ex–air force. Name’s McDavitt. He’s the real deal. If you need to get somewhere fast, or get away fast, he’s your man.”

  A jolt of synchronicity makes my scalp tingle. “I met McDavitt

  today.

  No shit. Some corporate big shot hired him to fly us around the city.”

  Kelly laughs softly. “You see? Things don'’t look as bad as you thought. Now, you get back to Annie. We’ll take care of things on our end. See you in a couple of days. I'm out.”

  I wait until I hear the click, then slowly hang up.

  The circuitous trek back to my house doesn’'t seem to take nearly as long this time; I feel Daniel Kelly sitting on my shoulder like one of Odin’s crows. The watcher on the corner is still in place, but I move across Washington as though cloaked in darkness. Just as I slip through the hedges into my backyard, I see a man walking across the parking lot of the bank behind my house. I silently double my pace, drop into the moat beside the basement window, and slide into the relative safety of my home.

  My father is standing watch at the top of the stairs. He looks old in the shaft of light falling from my bedroom door, like a monk meditating over a gun he found by chance.

  “Don’t shoot,” I hiss from the bottom of the staircase.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dad whispers with relief. “I was about a minute from calling 911.”

  “I'm feeling a little better now,” I say loudly, hurrying up the stairs.r />
  “I think that was worse than Korea,” Dad whispers, standing slowly and rubbing his lower back. “Except for the frostbite. I took two nitro pills while you were gone. Let’s get to that damned computer so we can talk.”

  He follows me into my bathroom, and I bend quickly over Annie’s MacBook.

  Kelly called me himself from Afghanistan. I had to wait a half hour, but it was worth it. Blackhawk dispatched a team as soon as I told them we were in danger. They’ll probably come in an armored SUV. I imagine they’ve already left Houston. They’ll be here in less than seven hours.

  Dad nods thankfully, then pecks out two words:

  And Kelly?

  Kelly’s coming himself. 48 hours minimum before he gets here though.

  Good. So. What do we do now?

  Wait for the cavalry. We should probably stop using the computer. There are lasers that can read keystrokes by the vibrations of window glass. This is sci-fi stuff we’re up against.

  As Dad shakes his head slowly, I type:

  We’d better stay upstairs. We can pull shifts. One of us by Annie’s bedroom door while the other catches a catnap in my bed.

  You think I can sleep a wink after what you told me tonight? Drag a couch out here and we’ll play cards until dawn.

  Cards? You don'’t play cards!

  A smile that’s almost a grimace makes my father’s eyes squint.

  Haven’t since Korea. Bores the hell out of me.

  But tonight?

  The enemy’s out there. Tonight we play cards.