Without Remorse

Kelly stopped off for fuel at the Cambridge town dock before heading back north. He had it all now - well, he had enough now, Kelly told himself. Full bunkers, and a mind full of useful date, and for the first time he'd hurt the bastards. Two weeks, maybe three weeks of their product. That would shake things loose. He might have collected it himself and perhaps used it as bait, but no, he couldn't do that. He wouldn't have it around him, especially now that he suspected he knew how it might come in. Somewhere on the East Coast, was all that Burt actually knew. Whoever this Henry Tucker was, he was on the clever side of paranoid, and compartmentalized his operation in a way that Kelly might have admired under other circumstances. But it was Asian heroin, and the bags it arrived in smelled of death, and they came in on the East Coast. How many things from Asia that smelled of death came to the Eastern United States? Kelly could think of only one, and the fact that he'd known men whose bodies had been processed at Pope Air Force Base only fueled his anger and his determination to see this one thing through. He brought Springer north, past the brick tower of Sharp's Island Light, heading back into a city that held danger from more than one direction.

Onelast time.

There were few places in Eastern America as sleepy as Somerset County. An area of large and widely separated farms, the whole county had but one high school. There was a single major highway, allowing people to transit the area quickly and without stopping. Traffic to Ocean City, the state's beach resort, bypassed the area, and the nearest interstate was on the far side of the Bay. It was also an area with a crime rate so low as to be nearly invisible except for those who took note of a single-digit increase in one category of misbehavior or another. One lone murder could be headline news for weeks in the local papers, and rarely was burglary a problem in an area where a homeowner was likely to greet a nocturnal intruder with a 12-gauge and a question. About the only problem was the way people drove, and for that they had the State Police, cruising the roads in their off-yellow cars. To compensate for boredom the cars on the Eastern Shore of Maryland had unusually large engines with which to chase down speeders who all too often visited the local liquor stores beforehand in their effort to make a dull if comfortable area somewhat more lively.

Trooper First Class Ben Freeland was on his regular patrol routine. Every so often something real would happen, and he figured it was his job to know the area, every inch of it, every farm and crossroads, so that if he ever did get a really major call he'd know the quickest way to it. Four years out of the Academy at Pikesville, the Somerset native was thinking about advancement to corporal when he spotted a pedestrian on Postbox Road near a hamlet with the unlikely name of Dames Quarter. That was unusual. Everybody rode down here. Even kids started using bikes from an early age, often starting to drive well under age, which was another of the graver violations he dealt with on a monthly basis. He spotted her from a mile away - the land was very flat - and took no special note until he'd cut that distance by three quarters. She - definitely a female now - was walking unevenly. Another hundred yards of approach told him that she wasn't dressed like a local. That was odd. You didn't get here except by car. She was also walking in zigzags, even the length of her stride changing from one step to another, and that meant possible public intoxication - a huge local infraction, the trooper grinned to himself - and that meant he ought to pull over and give her a look. He eased the big Ford over to the gravel, bringing it to a smooth and safe stop fifty feet from her, and got out as he'd been taught, putting his uniform Stetson on and adjusting his pistol belt.

'Hello,' he said pleasantly. 'Where you heading, ma'am?'

She stopped after a moment, looking at him with eyes that belonged on another planet. 'Who're you?'

The trooper leaned in close. There was no alcohol on her breath. Drugs were not much of a problem here yet, Freeland knew. That may have just changed.

'What's your name?' he asked in a more commanding tone.

'Xantha, with a ex,' she answered, smiling.

'Where are you from, Xantha?'

'Aroun'.'

'Around where?'

'Lanta.'

'You're a long way from Atlanta.'

'I know that!' Then she laughed. 'He dint know I had more.' Which, she thought, was quite a joke, and a secret worth confiding. 'Keeps them in my brassiere.'

'What's that now?'

'My pills. Keep them in my brassiere, and he dint know.'

'Can I see them?' Freeland asked, wondering a lot of things and knowing that he had a real arrest to make this day.

She laughed as she reached in. 'You step back, now.'

Freeland did so. There was no sense alerting her to anything, though his right hand was now on his gunbelt just in front of his service revolver. As he watched, Xantha reached inside her mostly unbuttoned blouse and came out with a handful of red capsules. So that was that. He opened the trunk of his car and reached inside the evidence kit he carried to get an envelope.

'Why don't you put them in here so you don't lose any?'

'Okay!' What a helpful fellow this policeman was.

'Can I offer you a ride, ma'am?'

'Sure. Tired a' walkin'.'

'Well, why don't you just come right along?' Policy required that he handcuff such a person, and as he helped her into the back of the car, he did. She didn't seem to mind a bit.

'Where we goin'?'

'Well, Xantha, I think you need a place to lie down and get some rest. So I think I'll find you one, okay?' He already had a dead-bang case of drug possession, Freeland knew, as he pulled back onto the road.

'Burt and the other two restin', too, 'cept they ain't gonna wake up.'

'What's that, Xantha?'

'He killed their ass, bang bang bang.' She mimed with her hand. Freeland saw it in the mirror, nearly going off the road as he did so.

'Who's that?'

'He a white boy, dint get his name, dint see his face neither, but he killed their ass, bang bang hang.'

Holy shit.

'Where?'

'On the boat.' Didn't everybody know that?

'What boat?'

'The one out on the water, fool!' That was pretty funny, too.

'You shittin' me, girl?'

'An' you know the funny thing, he left all the drugs right there, too, the white boy did. 'Cept'n he was green.'

Freeland didn't have much idea what this was all about, but he intended to find out just as fast as he could. For starters he lit up his rotating lights and pushed the car just as fast as the big 427 V-8 would allow, heading for the State Police Barracks 'V' in Westover. He ought to have radioed ahead, but it wouldn't really have accomplished much except to convince his captain that he was the one on drugs.

'Yacht Springer, take a look to your port quarter.'

Kelly lifted his mike. 'Anybody I know?' he asked without looking.

'Where the H have you been, Kelly?' Oreza asked.

'Business trip. What do you care?'

'Missed ya,' was the answer. 'Slow down some.'

'Is it important? I have to get someplace, Portagee.'

'Hey, Kelly, one seaman to another, back down, okay?'

Had he not known the man... no, he had to play along regardless of who it was. Kelly cut his throttles, allowing the cutter to pull alongside in a few minutes. Next he'd be asked to stop for a boarding, which Oreza had every legal right to do, and trying to evade would solve nothing. Without being so bidden Kelly idled his engines and was soon laying to. Without asking permission, the cutter eased alongside and Oreza hopped aboard.