Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

Taylor can feel the birdie, has it firmly in his mind. He’s in the act of bending down to place the ball on the tee when he detects the putt-putt of an approaching tractor mower, and curses softly. He waits, assuming that the groundskeeper, upon seeing the owner himself poised to drive, will turn around and leave the area.

The tractor keeps coming, chugging up the slope. Oddly enough, the blades in the rig are not engaged. The damned fool isn’t even mowing. Taylor focuses on remaining calm. The man must be a simpleton, don’t let him ruin the moment. The tractor approaches a long bunker, one the machine can’t possibly traverse, but instead of swinging around to leave, the groundskeeper sets the brake and climbs down from the little green bucket seat and strides up toward the tee.

Taylor can’t quite make out the man’s face-the sun is behind him-but he recognizes the type of wide straw hat often worn by those who maintain the fairways and greens. And then, jarringly, he suddenly recognizes the jaunty stride of a man who is most certainly not one of the groundskeepers.

“Hey, boss, how they hanging?”

“What the hell are you doing here? I told you never to-”

“Yeah, yeah,” says the man who insists on calling himself Kidder. “Never speak to you in public. Well, this isn’t public, is it? This is a private course and you own it. Plus there’s nobody here but us chickens. Or ducks or seagulls or whatever.”

“Son of a bitch,” Taylor says, scanning the area to make damn sure they’re alone. “Are you out of your mind? What do you want?”

“I tried you at, what do you call it, your bad little boys club? Nobody home. And you won’t give me a cell phone number, which is just a tiny bit insulting.”

“You were at the boathouse?” Taylor hisses, throttling his three-wood. “Were you seen?”

“I’m sure your security cameras clocked me, but you can erase that, right? The point is, we need to have a conversation, so I made it happen.”

“This is beyond the pale!”

Kidder chuckles. “Really? Beyond the pale? I always wondered what that means. I mean, what is the pale, exactly, and how do you get beyond it? I’ll bet that’s one of the things your father used to say.”

“Leave my father out of this!”

“Hey, no problem.” Kidder zips his lips. “Total silence in the father department. I could care less about fathers, if you want to know the truth. My concern is mother and child.”

“You’re never to contact me. We communicate through an intermediary, that was the arrangement.”

“Yeah, well, there’s always an exception, and this is it. The situation is getting to be a problem and needs to be resolved. Permanently, would be my preference.”

Taylor walks in a tight circle, tapping the ground with the heel of his club. “Not yet,” he says, jaw clenching. “Absolutely not. Direct order.”

“I don’t get it,” Kidder says, as if bemused. “The operation is over. Time to tidy up.”

“What makes you think it’s over?”

“Looks over to me. The evildoers are dead, if not quite buried, and the target is in custody, with enough evidence to plant his bony ass in jail for life. Done and dusted. Over.”

“It’s not your call, damn it! And for your information the operation is not over. Not quite.”

“No? That’s fine. I’m always up for more. So what happens next? Give me a clue.”

“You’ll know when you get your orders.”

Kidder is amused. “My orders? We’re no longer in the field, Captain. I’m an independent contractor.”

Taylor glares.

Kidder remains affable. “Okay, fine. I’ll maintain status quo, await instruction. But I know what you’re thinking, Cap. I always knew what you were thinking back in the day, and I do now.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking I need my ticket punched, once this is all over. Tie up the last of the loose ends. Bury me in a foxhole and move on.”

“You’re wrong. I’d never-”

“Yeah, you would,” Kidder interrupts. “I get it, a man in your position. So much to lose. Thing is, I’ve taken precautions. If I go down, you’ll be right behind me. That’s a certainty, Cap. I’ll be saving you a place in hell.”

“What have you done?” Taylor hisses, struggling to keep his voice down.

“Taken precautions. So put it out of your mind. And do please let me know what happens next. Provide me with a contact number. And soon, or I’ll have to go all rogue, and you always hated that.”

Taylor waits until the smart-mouthed bastard is over the hill and gone, and then he takes a deep breath and swings at the little white ball.

And misses.

In his mind his dead father laughs and says, strike one, my son.

I’m updating the case notes into my personal shorthand when a blinking light on my desk indicates an incoming call on the secure line.

I lift the handset and announce, “Alice Crane, Secretary of Ambivalence.”

“Hey, Alice.”

“Hey, Dane. ’Sup?”

“Nothing earthshaking,” she says, way too casually. “Listen, I just remembered I left my lipstick in that little bathroom down the hall from Naomi’s office? Could you check when you get the chance? Pale Peach.”

“Not a problem. Later, alligator.”

I grab my purse, give a shout-out to boss lady, letting her know there’s an errand needs running, and leave the residence. The call for lipstick is a coded signal that Dane needs my ears to her lips, with no chance the conversation will be overheard, electronically or otherwise. Plus we never say “office,” always “command center” or “command,” so misuse of a common word underlines the importance of a request. She’s staked out in Randall Shane’s room at the hospital and won’t be letting him out of her sight until the indictment comes down, so that means hoofing it to Mass General and hearing whatever it is that’s too important to wait for the evening briefing.

With all the talk of spies and secret security agencies, and what I know firsthand about hovering helicopters, you might say my sense of awareness has been heightened. Or I’m getting to be as paranoid as the late professor. Whatever, I hit the street with eyes peeled, after deciding to proceed on foot rather than bike or taxi. Figuring as a pedestrian I’ve got a better chance of spotting a tail, and a brisk walk will do me good.

All is serene for several blocks. Considering Back Bay is in the heart of the city, it’s amazing how lush and varied the urban vegetation gets this time of year. There are places where the canopy of white ash trees almost entirely spans the narrower streets, and many of the tulip trees and dogwoods are still in full bloom. I’m striding east on Beacon, in the vicinity of Fisher College, when I finally spot her. A young, professional-looking female quickly exiting a black SUV half a block ahead of me, on the opposite side of the street. What gives her away is a telling glance-she’s checking my precise location before pretending to wander along Beacon, as if looking for a particularly hard-to-find address.

My guru and mentor in the art of spotting tails is Jack Delancey, so I know enough to drop my purse-oops, how clumsy! — and get a slant on the block behind me. A young, casually dressed male wearing sunglasses and a Bluetooth ear set studiously ignores me and walks right on by without offering to help with the spilled purse. So there are at least two tails and probably a third somewhere, waiting to be dropped off by the roving SUV, as well as another vehicle running backup, assuming this is a standard tail job with a full crew.

Useful to know that I’m under surveillance-that probably means all of us are, which means a big operation, lots of manpower-but there’s not a lot I can do about it right at the moment, not without getting silly, not to mention sweaty. Besides, if they’re any good at all they’ll have already guessed that I’m heading to the hospital. Plus the trick with the purse will have confirmed my awareness of being followed.