"Be right over."
He decided to hoof it. Russ was only a mile and a half or so away. Jack had garaged the car and by the time he got it out on the street or found a cab he could be there. Besides, the cold air would revive him.
Christ, he was tired.
The air, the exercise, and the cuppa Joe he grabbed from an all-night coffee shop on 81st combined to revive him, leaving him alert and fairly energetic by the time he arrived at Russ's.
Jack had seven-fifty in bills ready in his hand when Russ opened the door. He didn't want any jive—he wanted info.
"Here." He handed Russ the wad. "Show me."
Russ stared at the bills, then at Jack. He wore a stunned expression. "That was quick."
Jack pushed past him and stalked toward the computer. He was not in a chatty mood.
"Show me."
Russ pocketed the cash as he scooted ahead. He hung over the chair and started banging the keyboard.
"It's right about—here." He pulled out the chair and motioned for Jack to sit. "There's six gigs of data on that drive. I searched high and low but this was the only mention of Nantucket I could find."
Jack saw bar graphs and calendars but no mention of Nantucket.
"What am I looking at?"
"It's a bill management program. Let's you know if and when you paid a recurring expense." He ran his finger along a line. "See these numbers. They all went to a guy named Darryl Heth on Pocomo Road in Nantucket—or should that be on Nantucket?"
"And who might he be?"
"Well, he's listed under 'Maintenance,' so I'd guess he's some sort of handyman or caretaker."
"Does it say where he does his maintaining?"
Russ shook his head. "That's about it: name, address, and 'Maintenance.' That what you're looking for?"
"Not quite. No mortgage payments listed?"
"Maybe. But if so, they're not linked to Nantucket." He reached over Jack's shoulder and entered a few bursts of typing. He shook his head. "Nope. No mortgages at all."
Jack stared at the screen. He hadn't learned any more about the location of the new MV home, but he'd bet the ranch that Darryl Heth could tell him.
"Print out his name and address for me."
"Gonna write him a letter?"
"Nope. Going to pay Mr. Heth a visit."
3
Jack was dozing in his car outside the Twin Airways hangar in the wilds near a Long Island burg with the improbable name of Muttontown, when Joe Ashe pulled up in a very retro, very bright yellow Chevy SSR pickup.
"Thank God," Jack muttered, rubbing his eyes.
He'd been having trouble hooking up with the Ashe brothers the last two times he'd needed to fly. He hadn't been able to get past their voice mail earlier so he'd driven out to wait. He hoped Joe wasn't here to get ready for another charter.
Joe, tall and skinny, stepped out of his truck and ambled toward Jack's Vic, a curious expression on what little was visible of his face. He wore shades and a cowboy hat low over his fair, shoulder-length hair. The lower part of his face hid behind a short beard just the far side of stubble.
Jack stepped out and waved.
Joe grinned when he recognized him. "Hey, Jack," he said in a molasses-thick Georgia accent. "How're they hangin, boy?"
Jack had borrowed that accent last week when he'd braced the yeniceri from the rear of their Suburban.
"Need your help."
Joe laughed. "Some more larkin like that tire-dumpin gig? Man, that was so fun it oughta be illegal." He struck a pensive pose with a hand to his chin. "Hey, wait a minute. I do believe it was."
"Got to get to Nantucket, Joe."
"Not a problem. Long's you don't need to go today."
"I need to be there now. As in yesterday."
"Shoot, man. I got a charter scheduled for midday." He looked at the gray clouds lidding the sky. "Course that might not happen. Got a heap of weather on the way. A snowy nor'easter, they say."
"What about Frank?" Frank was Joe's twin brother.
"On a charter to Tampa. Lucky bastard. He'll probably stay there awhile to wait out the storm."
"This is really important, Joe. Please. I'll pay you anything."
"Ain't a question of money—question of time. Why'nt you just go commercial? And if you can't do that, I reckon I can call on some folks'll be glad to take you."
"The how is as important as the where and the when. I need to bring along some hardware."
Joe stared at him a moment, then said, "C'mon inside where it's warmer."
He led Jack to the hangar, unlocked the door, and deactivated the alarm. Inside Jack saw a Gulfstream jet and a few small prop models.
In the cozy office in the front corner, Joe started a pot of coffee. Looked like he'd set it up the night before so it would be ready to go.
Jack said, "How long will it take you to get me there?"
"Do 'er in half an hour, tops."
Jack glanced at his watch. "It's only a little after eight. You can be back by nine-thirty."
"Whoa-whoa-whoa." Joe held up his hands. "This here ain't like jumpin inna pickup. You gotta do all sorts of checks'n shit."
"Well, let's get started. I'll help."
He opened his mouth and Jack expected another refusal, but Joe caught himself. Maybe Jack's desperation had seeped through.
Finally he sighed. "Shit. What the fuck. Let's do 'er. How long you plan bein there?"
"Overnight. Less if you can hang out and—"
"'Fraid you're gonna have to get back on your own. Last thing I need is to get snowed in at ACK."
"Ak?"
"A-C-K—Nantucket Memorial's ID code. Come on. Let's get doin if we're gonna do this."
Jack wanted to hug him but figured Joe wouldn't appreciate that.
4
The sleek little four-seat, two-prop Diamond Twinstar had a bumpy time in the cloud-filled sky.
"Unsettlement in the air," Joe told him through the headphones.
"Long as we don't do a John-John."
"Gotta few more hours under my belt. Just a few."
Jack knew the Ashe boys had uncountable hours of flight time, but still he hung on and prayed.
He hid his relief when, at a little after ten, he was able to step out onto the tarmac of tiny Nantucket Memorial Airport. He pulled his duffel bag from the rear and shook hands with Joe.
"I owe you one, man."
"Hell, you paid me."
"You know what I mean."
Joe smiled through his beard. "Yeah, I do. Hope things never get to the point where I have to call you up and collect."
"You've got my number."
Joe looked at the sky. "Don't reckon I'll be able to come back here for a while. Once that nor'easter hits—and it looks to be real soon—I'll be snowed in. We ain't commercial or even municipal. Takes time to get our strips plowed."
Since Jack wasn't sure he'd be able to go back tomorrow—or ever, for that matter—he took the news in stride.
"I'll work something out."
Joe rubbed the arms of his sweatshirt. "God damn, I swear it's even colder here than back home. I gotta get back inside."
Jack waved, then hurried through the razor-edged wind to the solitary, cedar-shake-sided building where he found a Budget counter. After renting him a Jeep Liberty, the woman there gave him a map and outlined the route to Pocomo Road.
Pocomo, it turned out, was a section of Nantucket whose main artery was—surprise—Pocomo Road. The area lay northeast of the airport as the crow flies, but no road ran the crow route. He'd have to follow a roundabout course that took him west and then back eastward.
A small annoyance, but still an annoyance. It meant delay, and time was a fist against his back, kidney punching. If the doc had been right last night about Gia and Vicky having twenty-four hours left, damn near half of that was already gone.