Chalk was about to S.W.A.T. into the parlor with a classic Hollywood diving roll when the laughter suddenly stopped.
He heard a familiar voice call out, “Come on in, Maynard. The water’s fine.”
Chalk was speechless, but not for long. “Richard Willem Blackshaw! You goddamn thief! That you?”
“Yeah, bunky. In the flesh.”
Chalk shook, insane with rage recalling the hassles of the last forty-eight hours. “Throw down your weapon, shit-heel! Now!”
“Easy boy. Don’t have one to throw. Anyway, you got bigger problems than me. Way bigger.”
Chalk had not yet put his head into the room. “You don’t sound so good, my friend.”
Dick restarted his noncommittal chuckling. “Been better.”
Despite the cordial invitation, and the fact that Dick sounded off his feed, Chalk penetrated the room hard, low and fast. He needn’t have bothered.
Richard Willem Blackshaw sat on the floor propped up against the back wall. He did not even look at Chalk. Instead, he placidly watched the reflection of the boat fire flickering on horse hair binding that hung down in brittle tufts from the cracked plaster ceiling. Blood drenched the fingers of both his hands where they gripped just above his pelvis.
Chalk ordered, “Put your hands up.”
Dick Blackshaw smiled and said, “If I do like you say, my guts’ll flop into my lap. Our chat’ll be kinda short, doncha know. Reckon I caught me a round of your suppressing fire. Messed me up good. So I respectfully decline.”
“Dickie, Dickie, Dick-Be-Nimble. I hope it hurts like hell,” Chalk said. “Had something like that in mind for you myself. For starters.”
As Chalk patted Blackshaw down, the injured man said. “Think you’re gonna get all the gold back?”
“I don’t think it. I know it.” Then Chalk heard somebody shout “Fore!” over his radio earpiece. Not Slagget. Not O’Malley. A stranger. It sounded like somebody playing golf. Maybe it was not the transceiver at all. Maybe stress sped up the metabolism of his psych meds, and he was finally having the auditory hallucinations he feared. So what!
Then Chalk noticed the rest of the metal boxes. They were stacked up against the right hand wall in the shadows thrown by the fire outside. A quick count. He totted up nineteen. Those, plus the one in the window, made twenty. Beautiful.
Chalk grinned. “See? All here. Gotta say your boys didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“Maybe not, but that big problem I told you about? That’s in the last box over there. In the window.” Dick nodded toward the opposite wall. Chalk went to the window, careful to keep in the shadows.
Dick said, “Go ahead and open the box. It won’t bite you. Leastwise, not for a minute or two.”
Chalk grinned. “I have a better idea.” He pulled out his sat-phone and dialed. Then he retreated from the window, and loomed over the gut-shot man. Chalk bent down and hoisted Dick to his feet. “Upsy-daisy, Dickardo. Come on!”
Blackshaw groaned. He staggered as Chalk dragged him to the window. Chalk kept his good arm around Dick’s shoulders. With his free hand he held his sat-phone to the waterman’s ear.
“Dickie-Boy, I want you to say howdy to a new friend of mine.”
CHAPTER 61
One minute passed. Two more. Ben kept the rifle sight on the Hotel’s upper parlor window. The battle sounds on the west side of the island continued for a few moments. Then the guns fell silent. The Palestrina crackled on the beach. More bright cinders rose into the air. Drifted on the wind toward the Barren Creek Hotel.
He glanced at his watch. This was taking much too long. The timing for his entire mission was critical, and was now verging on total failure.
Suddenly Chalk appeared at the window in full view. This was wrong, not how Ben planned. Despite his hot reception on Spring Island just moments ago, now there wasn’t a hint of caution in Chalk’s posture. He stood upright, straight-backed and bold, without cover. He didn’t even reach for the key card dangling there on its chain. Nor did he examine the box Ben had left as bait on the sill. Instead, Chalk gazed calmly out the window holding a cupped hand near his face. Ben looked closer. Chalk was dialing a phone. And smiling.
The eerie peace of the night was shattered by the sound of The Kid’s mobile in Ben’s pocket. The ringtone was the Misfits’ Mommy Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight. Ben pulled out the phone.
The caller ID said Boss.
Ben answered. He held the phone to his ear. Put his eye back to the rifle sight. Aimed the sight back at the hotel window. One look confirmed the impossible. Now Chalk was not alone. He had his arm around somebody’s shoulder.
The voice Ben heard on the phone was that of a dead man. A ghost. All that sifted through to Ben’s pain-racked mind was a boy’s greeting from long ago. He said, “Evening, Pap.”
CHAPTER 62
Making that call had been fun for Chalk. Good old Dickie had valiantly told his brat to stand down and stay the hell away if he wanted to see his old man alive again. Now back to business.
Chalk inserted the flat metal key on the box. Flipped back the lid. Not gold. It was obviously the dirty bomb Tahereh had been hoping to purchase. And dammit! It was live. The timer read 00:06:23.
Chalk uttered the infamous last words of many a dead pilot, skydiver, and bomb squad tech. “Oh shit!”
With detonation could come total irradiation. It would be a disgusting death, writhing in Homeric agony from beta and gamma burns and global bone marrow breakdown. Not to mention the annihilating fatigue, uncontrollable puking, hair loss, and rocketing bloody diarrhea in the meantime. Yum.
In a little over six minutes Spring Island would be so contaminated you could fry an egg on the sand for years to come.
Chalk pointed his gun at Dick’s forehead and clicked back the hammer. “Did you start this thing?”
Dick’s odd chuckle again. And the easy smile that had suckered Chalk into a bad hire. Both a little weaker now. Dick said, “I think my boy did.”
“Then, by damn he’s fucked us all.”
Chalk’s mind reeled. After all the danger and trouble, here lay nineteen boxes full of gold and no hope of moving an ounce of it. He checked and rechecked. All the other boxes were locked. He had no idea where the second key was. Had no time to search for it.
He fired twice at one of the top row boxes. The bullets bounced off the locks ricocheting with Western movie twangs. Chalk thought better of firing a third time.
There was simply no chance to save the gold. Even one box was far too heavy to haul alone. Not even if Tahereh had two good hands. Not even if he had killed all the marsh monkeys in the surrounding fifty miles. Goddamn! All that gold! All that money! All that power! Wasted!
Chalk was again transfixed by the timer’s countdown. His brain raced for any alternative. Some way to both live and enjoy the full bounty of this gig. No brainstorm came up. No satori, no eureka, nothing. Instead, he came to his senses fast. Chalk had not survived this long mooning over lost opportunities. To his way of thinking, there were only two things left to do. One: permanently fix Dick Blackshaw. Two: get the hell off this sand spit before he got cooked.
Chalk raised his pistol and whirled to dispatch item one. He found his path blocked by another man. Ben Blackshaw stood like a protective wall in front of his father. He was tricked out in a vegged-up ghillie suit like Swamp Thing.
Chalk marveled. Where the hell did he come from? So quick, and without a sound! Ben was not even breathing hard.