Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

The racing card at Belmont was short that day; the last race went off a little after four in the afternoon. After Tiny paid off the winners, he finally allowed himself a drink, his first since the morning Bloody Mary. Harry White had been drinking whiskey as if he’d just escaped a temperance meeting, but he seemed unaffected. Mercer had switched to club soda and was sober.

“What’s ya doin’ tonight, Mercer?” Tiny asked, running glasses through the three small cleaning sinks under the bar. The smell of liquor was removed from the glasses, but they weren’t actually clean.

“I’m throwing myself into the penguin suit tonight.”

“Formal dinner?”

“I’m blowing off the dinner, but there’s an open-bar reception afterward.”

“Open bar?” Harry breathed enviously.

“I knew that would get you.” Mercer smiled.

“What’s the occasion?” Tiny asked.

“The inauguration of a new think tank called the Johnston Group, sponsored by none other than Max Johnston, the owner of Petromax Oil. The group’s made up of scientists, economists, and environmentalists working on practical ways to implement the President’s Energy Direction Policy.”

“You going to be part of this group?” Harry asked as he unwrapped his second pack of cigarettes for the day.

“No, but I’ve known Max Johnston for a couple of years. The invitation to the party was in my box when I got home from Alaska.”

“Hobnobbing with the rich and famous again,” teased Harry. “What the hell is Johnston worth?”

“Christ.” Mercer combed his fingers through his thick hair. “He owns Petromax Oil outright, plus he has control of the Johnston Trust established by his father when he started Petromax. I’d say a couple billion dollars, maybe more.”

“Find out if he has an eligible daughter.” Harry paused and reconsidered. “Hell, for that kind of money find out if he has a toothless grandmother who wets herself. I’m not fussy.”

“For your sake,” Tiny added, “I hope he does so you can pay back some of your bar tab.”

Harry shot him an innocent look.

Mercer laughed. “I’ve got to go. The dinner’s at six and the reception starts at eight-thirty. I want to be the first in line at the bar.”

He walked home slowly. The day had turned out to be milder than expected, and the humidity seemed to be held in check by the angry clouds that were threatening in the east. Thoughts of Jerry and John Small had faded to their proper place. Mercer felt bad for them, but it was their own stupidity that got them killed. He felt worse for John’s mother, wherever she was. No parent can deal with outliving a child.

Both of Mercer’s parents had been killed in the Belgian Congo during the Katanga uprising. Being an orphan, raised by his paternal grandparents in Vermont, he had never experienced the difficult adolescent phase. Mercer’s desire to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a mining engineer precluded any thoughts of teenage rebellion. He couldn’t imagine what would bring a father and son to physical blows. But something had made them brawl, and the consequences had turned deadly. Like MacLaughlin had said, they had both been drinking.

Just as Mercer turned the key in the door of his house, he cocked his head slightly, as if hearing a voice. In fact, he was hearing John Small again, as if he was standing next to the teenager aboard his father’s boat. Mercer had just offered him a beer and the young man refused with a shake of his head. “No, thanks. I’m captain of the basketball team this year and there’s a good chance I’ll get a scholarship out of it.”

Jesus, John doesn’t drink.

Mercer raced through his house to his office, his fingers touching the piece of kimberlite like a mezuzah. He threw himself into his chair and quickly dialed information. A few moments later he was connected to the sheriff’s office in Homer.

“Dan MacLaughlin speaking.” He sounded better than he had earlier this morning, but exhaustion still dragged at his voice.

“Chief MacLaughlin, this is Philip Mercer. We spoke this morning about Jerry and John Small.”

“Of course, Dr. Mercer.” MacLaughlin sounded shocked by Mercer’s call. “Can I help you?”

“You said that both of them were drunk, right?”

“Preliminary autopsy showed a blood alcohol count of over point two in both of them. They were hammered.”

“Chief, John Small didn’t drink,” Mercer said triumphantly.

MacLaughlin was hoping for a big revelation, so his disappointment sounded especially bitter. “Dr. Mercer, just because he was a minor, don’t mean he didn’t drink. This is Alaska. We do things a little different up here. Hell, I buy my kids beer on the weekends.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. John mentioned his basketball team and not screwing up his chances of a scholarship. We had just found two corpses on a burned-up boat and the kid refused a beer. That sight would have made a ten-year A.A. veteran consider drinking again.”

MacLaughlin was silent for a minute, the static over the line the only indication that he hadn’t hung up. When he spoke, he did so softly, slowly, as the full implications of Mercer’s news sunk in. “My son’s best friend is on that team, and they all pledged not to drink until the season was over. It was a way to keep them focused and fired up. What the hell does this mean?”

“Either John broke his oath or something’s not right and I’m willing to bet it’s linked to the Jenny IV . Did you manage to reach Howard Small in Los Angeles?”

“No, not yet. But I left a couple of messages. He’ll get back to me by tonight I’m sure. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“Let me ask you, what happened to the hulk of the Jenny IV ?”

MacLaughlin paused before answering. He didn’t like the answer he was about to give. “It was scuttled by the Coast Guard the day after Jerry found it. By law, he had salvage rights to the vessel. Since the owner had died in the fire, there was no one to buy her back. There was nothing worth keeping, so Jerry had the Coasties tow it back out and sink her.” He paused again and then added lamely, “Old boats make great artificial reefs for the fishermen.”

“Did anyone explore inside the ship?” asked Mercer hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid not. She went out the way she was found, flooded to the freeboards.”

“Shit.” Mercer knew he’d just hit a dead end. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Chief.”

“I appreciate the call, Dr. Mercer. And if it’s any consolation, folks die every day in some mighty stupid ways. No sense making more out of this than there is.”

As he hung up the phone, Mercer knew that MacLaughlin wouldn’t leave the case alone, and neither would he.

Up in his bar, the last of the coffee in the pot had burned down to half a cup of tarry residue that could have been used as industrial solvent. Mercer sipped it cautiously while his dinner liquefied in the microwave. Something linked the Jenny IV to Jerry and John Small. They didn’t just die; they were murdered. He was sure of it. All he needed was a culprit, a motive, and some evidence.

Mercer’s Jaguar was a dark shadow as it crept along the wide driveway, its throaty V-12 harnessed to a purr, its Pirelli tires hissing against the damp asphalt. A fine mist silvered the night in the twin beams of the car’s headlights. His eyes strained to see the house he knew must be at the end of the lane. No one’s driveway could be this long.

He glanced at the odometer and saw that he’d come nearly a mile since leaving the main road. When he looked up, he finally saw the faint glow of Max Johnston’s home. The car rounded one more sweeping curve, and the house was laid out before him.