Something made a noise around the next curve. Ben held completely still. A rare river otter, thirty inches long, probably male, with brown fur and dark round eyes, lazily slew-tailed down the stream within four feet of where Ben lay. Ben stopped breathing. He was not worried about upsetting the playful creature. He did not want to startle it into giving away his position. Ben closed his eyes to prevent the animal from keying into facial features amongst his ghillie thatch and muddy war paint. The otter passed Ben without glimpsing him. When it was out of hearing around the downstream bend, Ben resumed his skull drag toward his target. After fifty feet, the gut joined with a stream.
Ben turned northeast into the stream. Pulled himself along the bottom, letting the incoming tide help. Stayed hard against the shore closest to the Harris house. He made his way thirty yards like this until he was underneath Hiram’s crab shanty, which jutted over the stream on stilts. Shoulders howling, ribs baying, Ben pulled himself up into the shanty through the trap door.
He slowed his breathing and took stock. He had noticed Hiram’s boat, the Palestrina, was out. So was his smaller outboard skiff. Unless Hiram had the skiff in tow abaft the Palestrina, Chalk was probably in one of the boats. Who was left inside?
The feeling of having come too late pressed in on Ben once more. He still could not rush. So far he had stalked within fifteen feet of the house’s corner. It had taken nearly forty minutes, a heartbeat compared to some missions. Another scan. This time with his naked eye. He saw nothing. Not even a lookout at the window. He must have missed something. At this point, a fatal bullet might be his only clue he had been seen.
He took off the ghillie suit. Kept the wetsuit on. Drew the knife. A final scan all round. He edged the crab shanty’s door open. No one fired at him. Ben sprinted to the nearest corner of the house. Hugged it. Waited for sign or sound he’d been detected. Still no alarms.
Now, the pain in Ben’s ribs made him want to rush against all his training. At the back of his mind lay a constant awareness of the bomb. He reminded himself over and over again that if he went slow, he would live long enough to think up a solution to handle the invaders and their toy. Act with haste now, and he might be killed along with two of his lifelong friends.
Creeping below the first-floor windows, Ben went to the waterside door of the house. Turned the knob. Not locked. It never was. Never needed to be until today. He listened. Still heard nothing. Then he eased the door open. A quick look into the tiny foyer and beyond, into the living room.
The Harris place looked like a slaughterhouse.
Abandoning all thought for his safety, Ben pushed into his friends’ living room. The walls, once a plain, clean white, were now hook-stroked with blood like a de Kooning fresco. Where was Hiram? Where was Charlene?
Then Ben heard footsteps upstairs. A man on the second floor yawned, contented as if just rising from sleep. As if he were a guest coming down for his morning coffee.
Ben stood in a daze of his own for a second, unable to reconcile the man’s ease with the horror of the living room. Ben moved swiftly and silently to the wall by the foot of the stairwell. He saw feet, then legs descending, reflected in the glass of a painting hung at the bottom of the stair. Another self-satisfied yawn. Apparently the guy had Goldilocksed his way through the upstairs bedrooms until he found a mattress that was just right. Then, as in the fairytale, he woke up and met the bear.
When the drowsy intruder was four steps from the bottom, Ben reached blind around the corner and grabbed a fistful of shirtfront. He yanked with all his might, rattling his own ribs like Lincoln Logs. The man gave a yelp of surprise, and crashed headfirst into the wall. The picture glass shattered. He bounced stunned into a broken heap on the floor. Ben dropped onto his back, both knees driving out all breath. Since the man’s left hand was pinned beneath his body, Ben controlled the right arm, attacking the thumb, levering it hard up between the scapulae. Ben pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. The license read Tug Parnell.
Ben got in low to Tug’s ear. “Chalk. Where?”
“Fuck you!”
Ben slowly torqued the thumb hoping Tug would talk; wrenched it back well past misery into agony. It made a soft snap, like a carrot just a few days past crisp. Tug Parnell cried out. There was a demon on his back and he knew he was dead.
CHAPTER 21
LuAnna slowly woke. The rush of pain from body parts she was formerly unaware of overwhelmed her. She could only open her left eye through the swelling. She lay naked against a wall on a wood floor coated with chipped gray paint. The acrid smell of wild animals weighted the air. Wan light strayed in through small windows. She could not tell if the floor’s tilt was real, or symptomatic of a concussion and inner ear trauma. Smoke from an oil fire wafted up from her skin and hair.
There were sounds of wind and high water bashing all around. She thought she could feel the floor shudder with each wave. There was something familiar about the place. She could not clear her mind of pain enough to draw the line between sensation and recollection.
She knew she was hurt. She trembled. Maybe bleeding out. That’s what the chills could mean after the drubbing she had obviously taken. Her Death entree would come with a convulsion appetizer.
How long ago had it happened? Hours? Days? She had no idea. She had been on her way to Crisfield from Ben’s place. Saw the smoke to the west. Hard to tell what was going on in that wind. Maneuvering closer, she thought she’d even seen a lick of orange flame. A boat burning out in the storm. She powered out to investigate. The boat dead in the water. A fire near the engine box. She knew the vessel well. Not just a boater in distress. A friend. Hiram Harris’s Palestrina. Nearly broaching in the rising waves.
As she drew closer from upwind, she saw Hiram leaning against the wheel. Inert. She’d tried to radio for help, but the storm was making static of everything.
In the immortal words of Hooper in Spielberg’s Jaws, this was definitely not a boating accident. Then she saw the muzzle of the automatic pistol aimed at her face from the shadows of the cuddy cabin.
Now, on the floor of this tilted world, she heard footsteps. No, two pairs of boots thundering down a metal staircase, resonating through her aching skull. She could not move to see who or what was coming next.
A voice. “Why’d you mess her up like that?”
Another voice. “Just business. She put up a fight.”
“Maybe. But Chalk wants to chat with her before we snuff her boyfriend. Between you and me, I think the Old Man’s scared of him.”
“Doubt it. Call it a healthy respect. That man’s never afraid. He’ll kill them all over there, pick the nicest house, and set up shop for a while to unwind. You’re right. We better leave this one for now. She’s Chalk’s.”
A shoe connected with LuAnna’s hip. Rolled her onto her back. She blacked out, drowning under a wave of pain.
LuAnna woke again, sensed she was alone. Could not remember anything more, except that she was pregnant. Or had been. Was she still? She ran her tongue around a few broken teeth. Touched her damaged face. Wondered if Ben would still find her attractive.
Wondered if he would find her at all.
CHAPTER 22
Other than earning a slew of expletives, Ben got nowhere with the intruder. A quick frisk, but no gun, and no knife. All Ben knew was the man’s name, but he did not use it. He was in no mood to strike up the warm fuzzy rapport that often yielded useful information. There was no time for clever cat-and-mouse badinage.