Randy White - Shark River

“That’s weird,” I said. “They don’t give degrees unless you attend classes. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been kind of a loner. That, and I’ve always tried to pay with cash. Saves on bookkeeping.”

His smile told me that he knew that I was lying. “I’ve done background checks on grade-school teachers that turned up more data. Oh, by the way-our people did dig out one little interesting tidbit of information hidden away. Came from an old file in Pitkin County, Colorado. Aspen, that’s a town you might know there.”

It seemed to please him that I didn’t react. “Seems that more than a decade ago, a guy by the name of Marion W. Ford was a prime suspect in the abduction and probable murder of a political radical who lived in the mountains out there. A guy who specialized in bombing military installations. The cops detained you-this guy Ford, I’m talking about-but nothing ever came of it. Once again, you just vanished. Marion W. Ford vanished, I mean.”

I stood, not comfortable with the direction the conversation was leading. I said, “I think the computers have me confused with someone else, Doug. That was a long time ago, but I’d certainly remember something like that.”

“I’d think you would, too. Know what the really sad thing is, Ford? Okay, here’s what I think. The sad thing is that you should be given an award for what you did today. Or a bounty. Instead, maybe because you’re nervous about certain things you did or didn’t do in your past, you feel like you have to lie about it. Or maybe you just don’t want to be put into the bureaucratic machine, deal with all the bullshit details.”

I said nothing, waiting.

“There’s something else that pisses me off, too. Something not directly related to you or what went on today, but there’s bound to be a connection. Sooner or later.”

I raised my eyebrows-what?

“It’s those punks you chased off. Bigshot drug people when they have weapons, or political freaks like the ones who came looking for Lindsey Harrington. Sooner or later, if we don’t take them down, respond with lethal force whenever we get the chance, the day will come when they score big. I mean really, really big. They’re going to murder a bunch of us. They’re going to make a great big pile of bodies. Just watch. When it happens, the so-called peace-loving members of this society are going to be outraged all to hell. They don’t like it when their government plays rough. They won’t vote or allocate the money for us to maintain a serious defense, but they’ll sure as hell demand some answers. Why didn’t we stop it from happening?”

I put my chin on my fist, listening.

“Want to hear a very likely scenario?”

“Sure. Friends keep telling me I should pay more attention to what’s going on in the outside world.”

“You and a couple hundred million others. I wish to hell everyone in the country would get the pacifiers out of their mouths, grow up a little, and take a look down the road at what’s waiting for us out there. We presented the whole scenario to the Senate a few years ago, and the media didn’t even blink. Hardly a word went out. Okay, here’s the way it goes: A terrorist with the Shining Path or Hezbollah, or Islamic Jihad or Hamas tapes a standard one-hundred-watt lightbulb to the track of a New York City subway station. Minutes later, a passing train crushes the bulb. Contained in the bulb are spores of anthrax, one of the deadliest toxins known to humanity.”

“Very simple,” I said. “Very plausible.”

He answered, “Plausible? It’s inevitable. Or some equally nasty variation-sarin gas, for instance. Within hours, subway ventilation fans circulate the poison throughout the entire system. Then commuters begin dying. By the thousands they start dying, a hundred thousand or more for starters, and horrible deaths at that.

“It would cripple the nation. Bring everything to a stop. You can’t bury anthrax victims. You have to burn their bodies. There would be funeral pyres throughout the city.

“There are millions of fine, patriotic, law-abiding Muslims and politically active Latins in this country, but there are also a handful of very well-financed zealots on the loose who really do believe that we are the Great Satan. They will do absolutely anything to destroy us. People who kill in the name of God or political ideology are, by definition, without conscience. To get those boats from the Mercury Test Center? They threatened to shoot the seventy-five-year-old security guard and his grandson, who just happened to be there, hanging out. Threatened an old man and a kid, and I think they would have done it. You think they’re going to hesitate if they get another chance at you?”

I stood at the door and opened it. “I hope you’re wrong.”

Waldman surprised me by reaching to shake my hand. “Me, too, Ford. Judging from all the computer files that don’t exist on you, I suspect you’ve had an interesting life. I wouldn’t mind hearing about it some day.”

As he turned to go, I hesitated before I said, “Hey, Doug? There’s one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“The two women, Lindsey Harrington and-”

“The bodyguard’s name is Gale Storm. Honest. After some old Hollywood actress. They both want to stop and thank you, by the way. Tonight, if you don’t mind.”

I looked at my watch and shrugged. It was nearly eleven. “It’s probably already obvious to you, but I want to make sure. Someone had to be charting those women. Their habits. Someone here on the island. Their routine wasn’t hard to nail down because they never varied it. Still, someone had to be on island, watching.”

“We’ve already checked. There was a Colombian maid who didn’t show up for work yesterday or today. She lived in a trailer park on Pine Island, and her trailer’s been cleaned out, too.”

“Same with the Mercury Test Center,” I said. “They stole the two Scarabs right after it closed. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yeah. They used duct tape. Tied up and gagged the guard and the kid. Jumped the fences, climbed in the boats and off they went. Everyone just figured they were doing some special testing.”

“I think they had to have someone on the inside to have two high-performance boats all fueled and ready. Or maybe they bribed an employee for the testing schedules. It’d probably be pretty easy to do. Claim to be from the competition-Yamaha or OMC-and buy off one of the staff people.”

Waldman was listening, thinking about it. “The false flag gambit, yeah. But why? Those yellow boats don’t run every day?”

“You’d have to live here on the islands to know it’s unusual. Not two Scarabs out at the same time. I’ve seen them running in tandem before, but rarely. Nothing someone could count on. I think they probably had to pay some money to make sure it happened.”

He opened his notebook and scribbled a few words. “That’s useful. We’d have checked it out sooner or later, but now I’ll push it toward the top of the list. Anything else?”

“Nope, just that I’m glad I don’t have your job. The kidnappers, whoever they are, whatever their cause, you have to give them credit. They seemed to think of everything.”

That brought a wry, ironic smile to his face. “Well, not exactly everything.”

I said, “Oh? What’d they miss?”

There was a knock from outside as he said, “They missed you, Ford, that’s what they missed. They didn’t anticipate someone like you being here,” as he turned and opened the door.

Standing on the porch were the two uniformed officers with the dark Bahamian woman in the middle, her red-beaded cornrows swinging, clacking like miniature dominoes. Tomlinson was in the background, pacing-not reassuring because he’s not the type to pace.