Everyone stared at the man of God.
Mosby spoke quietly. “A born sinner. Sorry boys. He was about to throw down on Ben. And he’s been dipping into the collection plate on Sundays. May God have mercy on his soul.”
Ellis muttered, “Gimme that old time religion.”
Mosby had just cut down a man he had grown up with. Known all his life. The other Councilmen remained impassive. Including the suspect Sonny Wright.
Aware that Ellis was also backing him, Ben moved ten paces to where Tom Fox lay. Nudging the body with his toe, Ben said, “And for those of you playing the home version of our game, Tom was standing right on top of our gold. Seriously, boys. Don’t worry. There’s enough to go around.”
Shovels bit into blood-clotted earth. Five minutes later they had one box uncovered. Ben pulled out the flat metal key from his shirt. He wiped dirt away from the box’s slot. The lock clanked as the key went home. Ben opened the lid. Everyone but Sonny Wright, who stayed at his post, gathered around.
Dyze said, “Nothing too nice about that.”
It was the bomb, the timer still counting down. Two hours, fifty-six minutes, fourteen seconds ’til detonation. All the men except Ben and Ellis took a step back.
Ben said, “Can we have a minute here?”
Dyze said, “Hell, ye can have two hours and fifty-five minutes as far I’m concerned. Drop us a line when ye find work. Come on, boys.”
The Councilmen trudged single file out of the hollow. They were barely halfway down the planked gut leading back to the Varina Davis when Ellis called to them from the brow of the embankment.
He shouted, “It’s safe! Ben stopped the timer. Now let’s do what we came to do.”
Lorton Dyze asked, “Care to tell us how he managed that?”
Ellis shook his head. “Can’t. I didn’t see. God help us, for this scheme to work he’ll be starting that damn thing up again pretty soon.”
A grumble went through the assembly as they moved back toward the hollow.
Sonny Wright said, “Ye can’t be serious. Look here, Ellis. Ye think Ben’s okay upstairs?”
Dyze said, “Don’t care if he’s crazy as a shit-house rat. We’re letting him run this one.”
Art Bailey said, “None of you all got a better plan to bring in a few million this afternoon. His pap started it. The boy’s bringing it home, far as I’m concerned.”
Ellis nodded agreement. “Ben is Ben. Always been a little off-kilter, but he’s no fool. And for now, the bomb’s safe, which is a big load off my mind. So please come back and lend a hand with the gold. I’m sick of looking at it, let alone hauling it.”
Sonny quipped, “When you get sick of spending it, is when I’ll jump in.”
Working hard, the move took an hour. Finally, Lonesome George settled on the ground as the men marched the boxes out of the hollow for the last time. He gave them a single hacking bleat as if to say farewell, and good riddance.
CHAPTER 50
An hour passed on the Palestrina. Slagget said, “I think the wingnuts slipped out the other side, chief.”
Chalk said, “Patience, Slagget. Be the night. Now cut that engine, pronto. Let’s give a listen.”
Slagget shut the motor down. With no steering way, the Palestrina rolled dangerously in the waves.
Despite the weather, the late afternoon held a certain beauty for Chalk. He believed there was a degree of romance woven in with the closeness of death. A few more quiet minutes passed. Then it came.
At first it was a subsonic rumble of large diesel engines, first felt in the chest like an extra heartbeat before it was heard. Chalk, Slagget and Tahereh put on night vision goggles to help them see through the twilight to the source of the thrum.
Finally, the boat emerged from the interior waterways of the island. As if to confirm their sighting, the watermen opened fire at the sky with their shotguns once again. The flashes and the din of guns competed with the lightning and thunder of the night.
Slagget muttered, “Idiots.”
If Tahereh was right, the firing meant they were deadly smart. That did nothing to squelch Chalk’s frustration, “Dammit! What a bunch of Hottentot retards!”
Tahereh was silent.
Chalk ordered, “Start the engine! Let’s see where they’re going, but for God’s sake give those dipshits a wide berth.”
Slagget restarted the engine. Geared the prop, ahead slow. There was every reasonable expectation that the men on the target boat would turn south toward Smith Island.
To everyone’s consternation, the Smith Islanders set a course to the northwest away from their home port.
“Where the hell are they going now? The lighthouse is gone. Are they still delivering like I told them?” That was too much for a skeptic killer to believe. Chalk pulled out a chart, and examined it with a small red-lensed flashlight. He said, “There’s nothing out that way now except a patch of sand called Spring Island. Shallows all around it. Tahereh. Bill. I ask you. What. The. Hell?”
Slagget said, “Beats me. Deep Banks was a good place to keep the stuff indefinitely. And Smith Island would be good too, if second best. People all over the place. The FIBUA would have favored them since it’s their home turf. Whatever you may think of these jerk-offs, I guess they know their way around a shotgun, and these sand hills.”
Tahereh asked, “FIBUA?”
Slagget sneered, “Princess Achmalah-Malah doesn’t get Fighting In Built Up Areas. Means house to house. Dragging a recovery mission and a firefight down on their families might go against these guys’ grain.”
Chalk concurred. “That’s what I thought. Or maybe they’re like Apaches, and their squaws are the most savage of the lot. Tahereh, what’s your chick-vibe on those nimrods? Give us the Margaret Mead 411.”
She paused before she spoke. “I agree with you. Perhaps relocating the items together might confer a sense of wider communal ownership? We all know what an effort it must have required of Dick and Ben Blackshaw to get the items to Deep Banks Island. The bulk. The sheer weight. From wherever they got it, this was difficult work, and they did it quickly.”
Chalk interrupted her. “Save us the time-and-motion studies, pussycat. What in the name of all that’s holy are they doing now, in your estimation?”
She confessed, “I’m as baffled as you. For now, we’re doing all we can. Follow. Wait, and see. It’s what reconnoitering’s all about. Gathering data. Then we interpret the intel. Then we plan. Then we execute.”
Chalk gave a disgusted snort, and shook his head as he looked from her to Slagget, and back to her. Disappointed as he was, he knew Tahereh was right.
Tabling further speculation, they continued to follow the Smith Islanders north-northwest toward Spring Island. The distance was not great, but it still lay a good eight miles from any substantial landmass in all directions.
They watched through the NVGs as the deadrise landed on Spring Island, which was little more than a postage stamp of salty grit during a storm-surged spring tide. Chalk was transfixed. He gripped the boat’s gunwale until his knuckles blanched, nearly spat with rage as the watermen offloaded all twenty boxes of the shipment. His shipment!
Chalk vacillated between drawing his gun, and calling Ben on The Kid’s sat-phone to make a bargain for the mother. It took superhuman effort to fight both his natural inclination and the gathering psychotic storm that his meds had kept at bay for so long. He held tight, knowing he had already seeded the cancer of hope for Ben’s ma-bird in the waterman’s brain. No, let that tantalizing hint do its work. Let it grow its malignant tendrils. Let it eat Ben alive for now. He’d cash in that chip at just the right moment. And if it didn’t turn out to be a powerful threat, it might just serve him as insurance.