Jay narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on, Mr. Creech?” The tip of the gun touched the bridge of Creech ’s nose. Creech screwed shut his eyes, which were watering. “Dear me, Mr. Creech, you’re leaking from every orifice.”
The men who had gathered around laughed at this. Creech didn’t feel any better for them being there, but he could hardly feel worse about their massive presence either.
“He’s ugly,” said one of the street-gang youths. He’d been wearing his uniform of sawn-off black T-shirt and sleeveless denim jacket for most of the trip, but had insisted they stop at a service station just south of Carlisle so he could find something warmer to wear. The others had stayed in their cars.
“I doubt the shops here will sell clothes,” Jay had murmured. But the street youth had come out with a wool-lined brown leather jacket. Jay didn’t ask where he had found it. He knew he should be angry; it was a very public announcement of their presence, ripping off someone’s jacket. But he doubted the victim would run to the police, who would have to listen to a story about an American Blood on the loose in Carlisle…
“I fucking hate ugly people, man,” said the youth, shuffling his feet.
“Hear that, Mr. Creech?” Jay asked. “He hates you. Maybe you’d better help me pacify him, or you never know what he might do.”
As if in answer, the youth, whose name was Jiminez, expertly flicked open a gold-colored butterfly knife.
“Reeve made me take him to the island,” Creech spluttered.
“Yes? When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Does he have any way off the island?”
Creech shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He could always swim, but that’s about it.”
“Anything else, Mr. Creech?”
Creech licked his lips. “No,” he said.
Jay smiled and stood up. “Cut him,” he ordered. Jiminez had been waiting. The knife flashed across Creech’s thigh and he winced, covering it with his hand. Blood squeezed out from between his fingers.
“We can do you a lot of damage, Mr. Creech,” Jay said, walking around the boathouse. “You have some nice tools here, any one of which could be turned on you. All it takes is a little… creativity.” He picked up the hot-air gun. “Now, where’s the socket?”
“I swear to God!” Creech said.
“What did he take with him, Mr. Creech?” Jay asked. “You say you took him to this island, you must at least have seen what he took with him.”
“He had a bag, a holdall sort of thing. It looked heavy.”
“And?”
“And he had… he had a gun.”
“Like this one?” Jay asked, waving the MP5.
“No, no, just a pistol.”
“A pistol? Is that all?”
“It’s all I saw.”
“Mmm. You didn’t see anything else? No traps?”
“Traps?”
“Yes, for catching animals.”
“I didn’t see anything like that.”
Jay had finished his tour of the room. He crouched down again in front of Creech. This was his show. He wasn’t performing so much for Creech-who had been terrified from the outset anyway-as for his own men. He wanted to impress those among them who didn’t know him. He needed their respect, their loyalty, and even a measure of fear. That was how to command.
“Anything else, Mr. Creech?”
He knew if he kept asking Creech would keep telling. He’d tell until he was telling the tiniest details, because he knew if he stopped he might start to bleed all over again.
“Well,” Creech said, “he made some signs.”
“Signs?” Jay frowned. “What sort of signs?”
“He made them so they’d look old. They were danger warnings, warning about the island.”
“Warning of what exactly?”
“That it was out-of-bounds. That it was infected with an-thrax.”
Jay stood up again and laughed. “That’s crazy!” he said. He turned to Hestler, who was smiling without knowing what the joke was. Hestler had cropped black hair, a long black beard, and a face whose blotchiness was disguised by a year-round tan. “You know what he’s doing?” Jay asked. Hestler admitted he didn’t. “He’ll scatter those signs around half-hidden, like he’s pulled them up. When we come across one, we’re supposed to panic. And while we’re panicking, he picks us off with his toy pistol.”
“What’s anthrax?” the other Chicano asked.
“A poison,” Jay explained. “A tenth of a millionth of a gram can kill you. The army did experiment with it in the fifties.” He turned to Creech again. “Isn’t that right?”
Creech nodded. “But the island you’re thinking of is north of here.”
“And not on any map?” Creech nodded again. “Yes, maybe that was his thinking. He chooses an island the map-makers haven’t bothered with and makes it look infected. Too elaborate, Gordon. Way too elaborate.” He turned to Choa. “Take Watts and Schlecht and start bringing the stuff in.” Choa led the two men outside. Watts was tall and as thin as a reed, but deceptively strong. Jay had come up against him in an arm-wrestling contest in the gym, and had bet $300 on himself to win inside half a minute. Watts had beaten him in eleven seconds flat.
Schlecht was someone Watts knew, and that was about as much as Jay knew. He was small, but with massive biceps and a bull neck, an Ollie to Watts ’s Stan Laurel. Schlecht even had Hardy’s mustache, but his face was like an animal’s, nicked and scarred and mean.
The other three in the team had been suggested by Hestler, which was good enough for Jay. They were brothers: Hector, Benny, and Carl. For some reason, they didn’t reveal their surname. They looked like the weakest links, wide-eyed during the flight from L.A., amazed to be visiting hotels and Paris and car rental offices, like Europe was one giant theme park. One of them had even brought a camera with him, which Jay had confiscated straight off.
Hestler agreed that they acted like kids, but he’d seen them in fights. Once they got going, he said, they were real bastards. He thought they’d had their whole moral training from video games and spaghetti westerns.
It took a couple of trips to bring all the stuff in. Everyone was damp, and not liking it.
“Start unpacking,” Jay ordered.
Hestler looked at him. “Are we going now?”
“Why not?”
“It’s raining hard!”
“Hestler, we’re going to be in a fucking boat. We’d get wet even if the sky was blue as a South Carolina morning. I bet you’re the sort who runs out of the swimming pool when the rain starts.”
There was more laughter at this. Hestler didn’t appreciate being its butt, but he stopped questioning Jay’s decisions.
Jay turned to Jiminez. “See if you can find any oilskins.”
Jiminez nodded and set to work. Choa, Watts, and Schlecht were handing out armaments. Each man had a submachine gun, either the MP5 or a Cobray M11. They also received a pistol, ammo, and knife. Jiminez refused the knife, preferring his own blade. Hestler and Jay were the only two to be given grenades-Jay’s orders. The other men could be professional baseball pitchers, he still wouldn’t have trusted them with a grenade.
“We take those three bags with us,” Jay said, pointing to the ones he meant. “If you have dry clothes with you, put them in a backpack.”
Watts and Schlecht handed out the backpacks. They were day-walker spec, big enough for a change of clothes and some provisions. Belts and holsters were next. Creech could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes. He didn’t feel so bad now about ratting out Reeve. After all, Reeve hadn’t warned him what he was getting him into.
All Creech hoped now was that he’d get out of this alive. Jiminez had found some waterproof clothing, not quite enough to go around. Jay examined the two boats, only one of which was big enough to accommodate all of them. He decided they should take both: a backup was always useful.
“Are these ready to go?” he asked Creech.
“Might need some fuel,” Creech said, trying to be helpful.
“Do it. Hector, you watch him. Benny and Carl, go move the cars, see if you can get them out of sight.”