There was an old building on the island that seemed to be the men’s destination. After reaching the structure, they labored like a line of ants to and from the boat. At times Chalk thought he’d lost them behind the reed-covered islets that dotted the surrounding waters.
On the chart, Slagget drew in the smaller islands that weren’t already depicted.
When the hauling onshore was done, Chalk observed that two fewer men reboarded the boat.
Tahereh said, “They’ve posted guards at the old building.”
Chalk watched as the boat passed a half mile off, and finally bore south toward Smith Island.
He said, “Okay. That’s it then. Spring Island is now our target. But we’ll need some bodies to get this done.”
He pulled out his sat-phone. Speed-dialed a number. After a moment, he said, “Farron! Wake up, you sissy-ass punk! Get your team prepped. I want you boys wheels-up at twenty hundred hours. Your destination is a little airstrip on Tangier Island. TGI on your sectional chart. And remember to stay out of the D.C. Special Flight Rules Area. I’ll meet you.”
He ended the call without waiting for a response. Chalk said to Slagget, “We’re done here. South to Tangier Island for the pick-up. Keep your distance from those bastards.”
Chalk had called in his cavalry.
CHAPTER 51
Sonny Wright and Art Bailey stood watch over the hoard on Spring Island. They would be warm enough in the ancient Barren Creek Hotel if it did not collapse in the breeze and kill them outright. The hotel was abandoned many decades before. Spring Island was once so much more than this all-but-eroded sandbar. It had once boasted its own post office, a general store, a number of homes, a small church, and a burial ground. The Chesapeake Bay’s tides and winter ice floes had claimed almost all the buildings over the years, carved it down to the islet it was today. Only the hotel remained.
The rest of the men returned on the Varina Davis to Ben’s saltbox for final preparations.
Ben went straight upstairs to LuAnna. She slept fitfully. Kimba Mosby told him the fever had broken with the passing of the storm. Kimba spoke confidently. LuAnna would be whole again in time. Ben knew Kimba was lying to keep him focused on the mission. The storm was by no means past.
LuAnna was ashen, damp. Her breathing was shallow. The sight of her like this fueled Ben’s rage. He promised himself Chalk’s jackals would pay in the worst conceivable ways for what they’d done. Though Ben would hate to confess it even to himself, revenge was now an integral part of his plan. That is, once the question of his mother was settled. If LuAnna’s illness was an all-consuming distraction for Ben, the possibility of rescuing his mother from dangers unknown pressed him even further down. What the hell did Chalk really know? With no understanding of the true threat against his mother, Ben was hamstrung.
Looking down at LuAnna, the tortured faces of Ben’s military targets reared up to haunt him again. Now there were new faces in the crowd. Chalk’s fallen lackeys. Hiram Harris, and Charlene. Innocent friends stood in that mental sepulcher alongside his dead enemies. Ben finally understood. In fact, now they all knew the truth, the ghosts and Ben. His once-vaunted wartime blood-letting was just as damning as any peacetime murder. Killing then was as banal and horrific as killing now. He was no hero. He was no yeoman reaper made innocent by his medals. Yet he had to go on, no matter what lay in store for him tonight.
Dyze hollered up to Ben from downstairs. Ben kissed LuAnna, perhaps for the last time, perhaps his last kiss for anyone, and descended to the parlor. With a swift scourge of self-loathing, Ben knew there was room in the dark hollow of his soul for even more faces. All of humankind could enter there. Ben wondered what had happened to him. When had he turned? At what point had he regressed, and fallen from grace? His love for LuAnna, his terror at the thought of losing her, had dropped a junkyard electromagnet on his moral compass, twirling it like the Mad Hatter’s teacup ride at Disney. North was south. Right was wrong. Wrong was necessary, and what’s more, it was good.
Despite the insight, Ben still felt trapped. The Islanders depended on him to help see them through this bad business. For now, Ben had to stay the jagged course he’d plotted and sold to his friends. He would try to find his way home to peace, redemption, and forgiveness sometime later on. If there was a later. If there was an after.
At Lorton Dyze’s suggestion, Ben stepped across the way to Orville Hurley’s house, and knocked. Hurley had stood watch with his shotgun and his dog, Adolf, when Chalk first visited the saltbox.
The Councilmen had eyed Hurley to join their cabal. Tom Fox’s death on Deep Banks Island left an inconvenient vacancy both in the Council’s ranks, and in the plans for the night’s work. Tapping Ben to make the summons ratified his own nomination to new power and status in the shadow circle. On the surface, it appeared Ben had more than made his bones. Just as well. He’d done it literally many times before, returned living human beings to eternal dust.
Hurley and Adolf met Ben at the door. Hurley quickly agreed to come aboard in every sense. Adolf padded along by his side.
Lorton Dyze confirmed by phone that Bob Crockett had done what was asked. The Tangiermen had begun to earn their share.
While the men were out on their maneuvers, Julie Nuttle and Mary Joyce had prepared a vast meal. Eggs, fried chicken, potatoes of every description, oyster fritters, and preserved fruit pies. Several of the women, including Julie, worked in the Smith Island Baking Company up the path in Ewell. She could knock out the Island’s famous eight-layer chocolate cake with her eyes closed. For some of them it would be the last sweet flavor of home, of life itself, except for a final taste of gunpowder, bile, and blood.
Coffeepots were charged and emptied over and over again. No one touched liquor now. A relief from boredom, but never courage, was to be found in the stashed jugs and bottles on Smith Island. A clear head was the order of the day, and of the night to come. Ben’s order. Despite the feast, Ben did not touch a morsel of food for fear he wouldn’t keep it down.
Ben’s throbbing ribs tormented him. Iron Butterfly’s Ron Bushy had surrendered the thoracic drum kit to a poorly rehearsed high school halftime marching band. Despite the tympanic fugue, Ben refused to allow Kimba Mosby to look at his injury.
Between mouthfuls, the men stripped, cleaned, oiled and reloaded their guns. There was nervous palavering, too. Sometimes the excited chatter made no sense, was barely even English. Regardless, everyone still nodded and smiled and laughed by turns as if they had heard sage insights or hilarious jokes. Their more coherent yarns were peppered with expressions and references only a Smith Islander could fathom. These few pre-battle hours brought them all even closer as a fighting unit.
Darkness fell. Time came to set out. They loaded the Varina Davis with all they would need. They embarked with the sneak-boats in tow and the sinkboxes stowed on the Varina Davis’s stern.
Julie, Kimba, and Mary were all fair hands with a shotgun. They were reluctant to stay behind, but they still had work to do. From the mainland, they summoned a sympathetic Dr. Alan, who had long ago lost her license to practice. She was available by boat in any weather for a price. She specialized in removing bullets, stitching gashes, and staying quiet. She would wait at Ben’s saltbox for casualties, her instruments, saws, needles and suture thread laid out at the ready. Maybe she could help LuAnna.
Then the women took up shotguns and old pistols and braved the storm, paying calls on a few particular neighbors. Neighbors who understood all of Smith Island’s past, and who asked no questions. They were warned to take up guns and watch over their homes for the next few hours. Just in case Ben failed and death came a-knocking.