Part 8 (1/2)

”Decision time, Chuck.”

27.

Molly was pensive during the ride across town, not uttering a word. Finally she turned to Baines: ”So what happens now, Virgil? I mean with me”

”For the time being you can stay in the spare bedroom, if you want, at least until I can look into some employment possibilities Or, if you prefer, you could stay in a hotel,” Baines replied, trying to tell to himself that he wasn't hoping she would stay. 'Bad idea,' said a familiar voice in his head.

”Five grand wouldn't last long in a Was.h.i.+ngton hotel,” she said, seeming to be thinking out loud.

It didn't sound like an affirmative, thought Baines. But it sort of resembled one.

”Does that Thai pepper stuff really cremate your heart?” she asked out of nowhere.

”Joe's diabetic,” Virgil replied. ”That was his insulin. I just made up the part about the Thai peppers.”

She looked over at him and a smile unfurled on her beautiful lips.

”You are some rascal, Virgil Baines,” she said. Then she laughed that deep, resonant laugh that was starting to grow on him. ”I can't believe you did that,” she continued.

Then she was quiet for several minutes.

”Do you think Rawles will follow through?” she finally said.

”He's gonna think it over and weigh his options. He's going back to his boss empty handed. We've got a video with his ugly mug on it and an illegal gun with his prints, neither of which would likely endear him to Brewer. My guess is when he thinks it over, he'll realize his chances of remaining among the living are better with us. I'm pretty sure that even if he decided to bolt, what we have would be more than enough to discourage Shumer from pulling any other stunts.”

It was almost evening when the big Lincoln pulled up in front of the house. Virgil went around and opened Molly's door. When she got out, he knew it had been decided. Really bad idea, said the voice in his head.

28.

The captain had decided to try something bold. It would be pus.h.i.+ng their luck, but come to think of it, they really hadn't had any so far, unless the reaction of the sailor from the junk counted. That was precisely what he intended to explore. He needed to get aboard that junk to look around. He also planned to push any b.u.t.tons, so to speak, that made themselves available.

It didn't take long to decide that Brett was the man for the job. Normally brash anyway; you don't become a Navy Seal by being timid; he could be a hard man to say no to. And his Alabama drawl could be maddeningly obtuse, especially when he wanted it to be.

Early the next morning Richard followed Brett and Maggie at a distance. When they neared the dock where the junks were moored, he separated and took up his observation post. Maggie then parted with Brett and found a spot to sit and admire the harbor, while also keeping an eye on what Brett was doing. If he found himself in any trouble he couldn't handle, which was rare, Maggie had the option to scream b.l.o.o.d.y murder in order to attract as much attention as possible, a.s.suming that was appropriate. For backup, Jim had arrived separately and was nearby.

Brett walked past the cruise office, which was still closed at this hour. Then he strolled out onto the pier and toward the junk where he'd spoken to the sailor the day before yesterday. Everything was quiet. n.o.body home, he thought. A rope had been draped across the gangplank leading up to the junk. Brett unhooked it and started up, taking care to walk quietly.

When he was on the deck, he paused to look around. It was clear that this had been a working junk at one time; the renovations didn't completely conceal that, by design in all likelihood. It had a certain charm, like an old sailing s.h.i.+p from out of the pages of history, but with a distinct Far Eastern flavor. There was a large rectangular room on deck. The door was unlocked and he went inside. A large dining table took up much of the room. Aside from items common to a dining room, there wasn't much else to see. He stepped outside and moved slowly toward the bow. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of feet mounting wooded steps quickly from below deck.

A tall Chinese sailor appeared around the corner. Brett was surprised to see that the Chinaman was almost as tall as he.

”No tours now, please come back later,” he said calmly.

Brett flashed him his big southern smile.

”Mornin',” he said. ”Nice boat y'all have here. How many does she accommodate?”

The sailor seemed only temporarily disarmed by Brett's attempt at charm.

”Thank you, but we're closed now. You buy tickets at office over there. Open 9:30.”

”Ya know, I always hankered to see one of these close up,” Brett continued as if the man had said nothing. ”When we wuz young uns, there was a book 'bout a boat like this'n. Y'all mind if I take a gander?” Without waiting for an answer, Brett strolled into the wheel house. His unwitting host was momentarily nonplussed, but he quickly recovered, following Brett into a s.p.a.ce where modern navigation instruments seemed starkly out of place.

”Excuse me, but we are closed now,” he repeated.

”Y'all still use the sails?” Brett asked. ”Or you have engines, too?”

”Both,” the sailor answered. ”You must leave now,” he said, sounding more determined.

”Ya know,” Brett drawled, slowly this time, looking the sailor in the eye. ”I'm startin' tuh git the idea that ya'll don't want me tuh take one of yer cruises.” Abuptly the friendly expression drained from the man's face as his eyes lit up in surprise. He reached for his cell phone, but Brett grabbed his arm, closing the wheelhouse door with his knee at the same time.

”Didn't anybody ever tell you it's rude to use the phone when someone's talking to you?” The slow drawl was now replaced by a deadly serious, clipped tone. The man jerked his arm away.

Suddenly a high kick whizzed less than an inch if front of Brett's nose. This guy is fast, Brett thought as he blocked a right cross. Before the sailor could launch another, Brett had his fingers laced behind the sailor's head and jerked it down viciously, where his face met a knee that laid him out. Blood gushed from his nose as Brett leaned down to look him in the eye again.

”Do I look familiar to you, mister?” Brett spat out. The sailor moved his head back and forth, blood streaming down his chin.

”Wrong answer!” said Brett through clenched teeth. A second later the sailor found himself locked in an arm bar, moaning in pain.

”I'm gonna ask you one more time. Do I look familiar?” he spat out each word slowly. ”Wrong answer and I break your arm.”

Brett hoped the man wouldn't pa.s.s out as he applied more pressure, enough to dangerously stress the elbow joint. The man groaned, but said nothing. Suddenly the arm bent unnaturally and the man cried out.

”Now I'm gonna break the other one, pal.”

”OK, OK,” the sailor said, to stop the pain.

”Talk to me,” Brett said gravely. ”What happened to them?”

”I don't know,” said the man. ”Wait, wait!” he added as he felt the pressure being applied to his other arm.

”We take them out. Other boat take them somewhere else. All I know, all I know,” he pleaded.

”What kind of other boat?” Brett pressed, torquing the other arm. The man started to moan.

”Police boat,” the sailor finally yelped in submission.

Brett was stunned. Everything had just changed. He grabbed the sailor's cell phone and stood up, scanning the bridge. Spotting the boat's radio, he jerked out the microphone cord. Looking down at the p.r.o.ne sailor, he said: ”This is for Ray and Holly, a.s.shole,” he said, launching a savage kick at the sailor's head, leaving him unconscious. Then he quickly tied his hands with the microphone cord and turned to leave.