Deadly Shore, page 8
"Having a party when all hell is breaking loose might just bring attention to yourselves, wouldn't you think?" They nodded. "That's why I rented two places for the four of you, so it wouldn't draw any attention. And that's why we don't all meet at your places. That's why we don't communicate via text or emails. That's why our telephone communications are short and coded and we go through so many phones. I've taken great pains to do this as anonymously as possible, so don't you think that having a fucking party on the day the bridges come down is a little inappropriate?" He raised his voice with the last sentence to make his point.
It was made. They hung their heads.
"So here's what we are going to do. When I got here, I checked out the other apartments in this building and they all seemed empty. Probably all at the store getting supplies. I don't think any damage was caused by this shindig of yours. We are all going to leave and you two," he motioned to the two who shared that apartment, "will take a drive to a supermarket. Obviously you don't need anything, since we planned for this, but it's important that you see what's going on in case a neighbor wants to talk about it." He looked around at the others. "You will all do that. Try to buy something, but don't worry if you can't. Then head home and lay low until I call. You need to seem as normal as possible and not draw attention to yourselves. And it would be normal for you to be out trying to scrounge supplies. Think you can do that?"
"Okay boss."
"Then let's go. The next few days will be crazy and your main part in all this starts tomorrow and will be critical, so lay off the beer and get some rest."
As he walked to his car, he couldn't help but to feel nervous. So far, everything had gone as planned. Bringing civilization on the Cape to a halt was easy. The hard part was going to be convincing the government that they were capable of something even more monstrous. When word of what he had in store for them filtered down to the people, they'd go crazy. Good. That was exactly what he wanted. More importantly, he wanted the government to see just how scared the people were. And when they did, he could allow the last part of the plan to kick in—the part his men didn't know about, and never would until it was too late.
As he pulled out onto the main road and into the absolute chaos the Cape had become, he had to allow himself a smile. Even though it wasn't exactly his true purpose, he really would bring the government to its knees.
The old saying was right: Power was intoxicating.
Chapter 17
Doyle studied the cottage. Being dusk, the lights were on inside the house and he could see an old woman inside. He hadn't seen anyone else and had to assume she was alone. It was a good and bad situation. On one hand, taking over the house would be a piece of cake. On the other hand, he didn't want to be the cause of her having a heart attack. He was a thief, not a murderer. He'd have to approach the situation subtly. Subtly? How subtle could he be telling an old woman he was taking over her house? But what if he didn't tell her that? The news broadcast on the radio said that there were thousands of displaced tourists looking for lodging. Officials were encouraging people to open up their houses. He seriously doubted many would. It wasn't that they didn't want to be good neighbors. If it was a natural disaster of some kind, they would do it knowing that disaster relief couldn't be far behind. It was easier to share when the end was in sight. But with this one the very future was questionable. With the bridges down, the docks blown to kingdom come, and the airport unusable, they were going to have to resort to shipments by helicopter and airdrops, just like in third world countries. And everyone knew how successful that was. Things were going to be bad for a long time to come. He was going to have to charm this lady. Well, good luck with that.
He could see another cottage further up the road, but it was falling down. The roof had collapsed in on itself. Probably from the bad winter. This one looked sturdy.
He saw her go into the living room and turn on the TV. The news was on. He had a feeling the news was going to be on constantly for a long time to come. He picked up his backpack with the million dollars and slung it over his shoulder. He was learning that a million dollars was heavy. Upon reflection, he set it back down on the ground and took his gun from his belt and put it in the backpack. He might be able to con the lady into letting him stay, but if she accidently saw the gun in his belt, things might get ugly.
He didn't always carry a gun, but knowing who he was dealing with in trying to rob Flint, he felt safer with it. If he ever got caught with it by the police, he'd go straight to prison. An ex-con wasn't allowed to possess a gun. Ten years earlier he was caught breaking and entering some rich couple's home on the Cape. The place was massive and they only used it a few weeks a year. They weren't even supposed to be there, but, Doyle's luck being what it was, they were. The police were there in minutes, as they often were for rich people, and instead of being charged with breaking and entering, he was charged with home invasion, a much stiffer penalty. It was also his second brush with the law, so he went to prison. It could have been worse. He was out in three years. It was made abundantly clear to him, though, that one more time and he'd be in for a long time. Of course, with the current situation, good luck with catching him—or any lawbreaker for that matter. Crimes were going to be committed all over the Cape and very few of the criminals would be caught. The police were already spread dangerously thin. He didn't have much to worry about. If he couldn't con her into letting him stay, he'd force his way in. Either way, this was going to be his home for a while.
He started up the driveway to the house. Was he going to be presentable enough? Not that he needed to be, but it would help. He smelled his armpits. Whoa, they were ripe. He hadn't changed in about twenty-four hours, and sitting in the car all day didn't help. He wished he had some deodorant and a clean shirt.
He got to the door and could hear the TV. He listened for a moment. She was tuned to one of the Boston stations. The newscasters had on their disaster voices. If he could see the TV, they would also be sporting the corresponding faces. To give them credit, most probably weren't in the business in 2001 for 9/11, so this kind of situation was new to them. The closest that they had probably ever been to a serious local emergency was the marathon bombing. Doyle figured the newscasters lived for moments like these and they were probably trying their best to sound more professional than their counterparts at the rival stations.
He knocked. The TV volume decreased slightly.
"Who is it?" The voice had a tremor to it.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm really stuck. My car ran out of gas and I have nowhere to go. I called AAA, but there is no gas available. I hate to impose, but is there any way I could use your floor for the night? I know it's a lot to ask, but the whole world has turned upside down. I'd be happy to pay you."
Silence. Doyle could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. She had a moral decision to make.
"They've set up shelters in town," she answered. He could tell she was having a hard time with this decision.
"Yes, ma'am, but that's miles away and I'm now on foot. Besides," he added, not really knowing if it was true, "they aren't opening until tomorrow."
More silence.
"If it's any consolation," he added, "this is just as awkward for me as it is for you. It would just be for the night. I can walk to a shelter tomorrow. It'll be easier walking in the daylight."
That did the trick. The locks turned and the door opened slowly. He was met by the close-up version of the woman he'd seen through the window, a short lady probably in her late seventies or early eighties with the appropriate gray hair and wrinkled skin.
"Okay," she said. "I guess you can come in. It wouldn't be very friendly of me to deny a traveler a place for the night, considering all that's going on, would it?"
"I totally understand," he said as the door finally opened enough for him to step in. He held out his hand. "Joe Doyle."
She reluctantly took his outstretched hand. "Ann Lawrence." All the while she was cursing the fact that he had ended up on her road. The last thing she wanted, even if he was perfectly harmless, was a visitor. She had her routine set out—even in an emergency like this—and didn't want to share the moment with anyone. After all, there was a reason she was living out in the boonies alone.
"Please come in," she said graciously. "I apologize if I seemed rude."
"I understand perfectly," said Doyle as charmingly as he could. "I was on my way home after a week's vacation and got caught up in the traffic. After the thing with the bridges, I figured I'd better find a place to stay. I couldn't find any place, and then I ran out of gas. Again, I'm sorry to impose."
Ann studied her uninvited guest as he entered her home. He was pretty average-looking in her eyes, almost nondescript. He was the type who could have a five minute conversation with you and if asked to describe him later, your mind would go blank. He was of average height and weight, dark hair cut short. She noticed he was balding on top. A lot of men these days cut their hair short so as not to draw attention to the bald spot—better than the days of comb-overs, she thought. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers and a Hawaiian shirt.
He looked like someone on vacation … and yet, he didn't. There was something about him that didn't ring true. The weather had been unbearably hot, and yet, he was wearing jeans. Even now in early evening it was in the high eighties. She supposed she couldn't judge. Maybe he had a skin condition on his legs and couldn't wear shorts. Maybe he didn't like to wear sandals. There could be a million reasons. But there was something else. He was dressed to look like a tourist, but it was almost like a costume, like he was trying too hard to look the part. He was carrying a backpack. That didn't look like vacation luggage. She shook her head. Just her suspicious nature. Probably the rest of his luggage was in the car.
"Come in and sit down. I was just watching the news for updates."
"Thank you." As he walked past she wrinkled her nose. He was ripe. But if he was in his car all day, especially with the stress of the events, she could understand. "Anything new?
"Not in the last few minutes. Can I get you something to drink?"
"A water would be great. Thank you."
She ran some tap water into a glass. Typical old person, thought Doyle. He was expecting a cold bottle of water from the fridge, but she probably didn't believe in buying water, so he got barely cool tap water. Well, he was thirsty. He'd deal with it.
"As I'm sure you know, besides the bridges, the ferry docks are gone and the airport is unusable. People are looting the stores. The locals would never have done that. It's the tourists." Then, realizing that she was talking to one, she apologized.
"No need," he said. "You're probably right. The tourists don't live here. They just don't care the same way a local would. Any news on the hurricane?"
"It walloped the east coast of Florida this morning. Things are pretty bad there. Almost all the models—you know, all of those strings of different-colored spaghetti they always show on the weather—almost all of them have it hitting the Cape head-on on Wednesday. It's going to be bad."
"Are you going to a shelter?" He said it hopefully. If she went to the shelter, he could sneak back into her house and ride it out. Chances were, she wouldn't get back for a while. But no such luck.
"I think I'm safer here. I've ridden out many storms in forty years. With all else that's going on, I'd rather stay."
"Probably smart."
Over the next hour, Ann got her "guest" something to eat and pulled out an air mattress she kept for when Marie would visit, and a spare sheet and pillow. At nine o'clock she asked him if he needed anything else, then announced that she was going to bed. She doubted she would get much sleep with a stranger in the house, but she was sure she was just feeling paranoid.
"Good night, Ann. I really appreciate your hospitality. I promise I'll be out of your hair in the morning."
A promise he had no intention of keeping.
Chapter 18
It didn't take long for Flint to have the name of the person who made off with his million—and the other thing, the more important thing. Vincent broke like a piece of fine china. He gave up Joe Doyle's name in the first five minutes. That didn't stop Flint's men from spending the next hour working him over, even though it resulted in very little additional information of substance. By the end of the hour Vincent was still alive, but he wished he was dead.
The one piece of information they gleaned from the session was that Doyle most likely never made it off the Cape. Doyle had made the mistake of mentioning to Vincent that he had to pay off a loan shark in Boston. Flint worked his sources and within an hour found the name of the scumbag who had loaned Doyle the money. At first the guy wouldn't give up the information, but once Flint offered to pay what Doyle owed him—and having heard of Flint and knowing the man's reputation for getting what he wanted—the guy provided Flint with everything he needed. Yes, Murphy had loaned Doyle the money. No, he had no idea what it was for—just some sort of scheme. Doyle was supposed to deliver what was owed that day. A quick phone call from Doyle said he was stuck in traffic and would bring the money as soon as he got off the Cape. But he never showed. That meant to Flint that unless he was one of the unlucky ones on the bridge at the time of its collapse, he was still on the Cape. He just had to figure out where.
Money and power got things accomplished, and Flint had loads of both. In no time his men discovered where Doyle had been staying and what he had been driving. They found his car in the hotel parking lot, and at first assumed that Doyle was still staying at the hotel. But after checking his room and finding it bursting at the seams with a family of eight, they gave his car a going over and quickly determined that it was a junk box that had bit the big one. Logic told them he rented a car, which would explain why he didn't escape the previous night and why he never made it off the Cape—nothing would have been open. A short time later Flint's men had the rental information. It was now just a matter of time.
No one on the Cape was going anywhere anytime soon, and that included Doyle. Flint had no doubt his men would find Doyle. They had the time and they had the manpower. The Cape wasn't that big. They would find that car, and when they did, they would find Doyle.
Flint just hoped Doyle wouldn't understand the significance of the other item he stole with the money. If that happened, it would change everything, and it was the only thing on earth that scared Flint.
*****
Flint wasn't the only one who was scared. After saying good night to his new roommate and hearing her lock her bedroom door behind her, Doyle took a moment to breathe. Since the robbery the night before and then the problems with his car and with getting off the Cape, Doyle had been in a constant state of panic. He had no idea what his normal blood pressure was, but he was sure it had skyrocketed. Enough to give himself a stroke? Probably not, but he needed to breathe. He had heard somewhere that breathing calmed you down. Hey, at this point, he'd give anything a try.
It was working. He was becoming a bit calmer. He took that time to tell himself that he was safe. Even if Vince talked, they would think he was off the Cape by now. No way would they be looking for him around there.
Oh shit, he'd forgotten about Murphy. He had to call the guy and let him know he was stuck on the Cape. Murphy was going to be pissed, big time. He'd probably demand more money. Hey, if it would keep Murphy off his back, he'd pay him. He'd still have plenty left.
He looked at the bars on his cell phone. He actually had service way out here. Then he noticed he had a message. It must have come in when he was in a bad service area and his phone didn't ring. It was Murphy.
"So where are you, you little dirt-bag? You better not be running out on me or you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your miserable life … your short miserable life. Call me."
He dialed. There went the blood pressure again.
"What."
"This is Doyle. I'm stuck on the Cape. I never made it over the bridge before it came down. Don't worry, I have no intention of running out on you. I just don't know when I'm going to get out of this place."
"You know that every day adds to what you owe me."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you get the picture. I'm doubling the daily amount. Whatever you stole, it better be enough for you to be able to pay me."
"C'mon, Murph. That's not fair. I'm stuck here. I'd bring it if I could."
"And that helps me how? You want me to triple it? Look, we'll see where this goes. Maybe I can get a boat down there to pick you up."
"That would be great."
"You should know," said Murphy, "that the guy you stole from is looking for you, and he probably knows you're stuck there."
Doyle felt as if a knife had been shoved into his heart. That changed everything. If they knew he was there someplace, they wouldn't stop looking until they found him.
"Normally, I wouldn't bother telling a piece of crap like you," continued Murphy, "but you owe me a lot of money, and I want it. Stay out of sight. I'll call you." He hung up.
Doyle slowly laid his phone on the coffee table. No way was he going to leave the old lady's house now. His best bet was to lay low and hope they didn't get lucky and find him there. He picked up his backpack and set it on the couch. He glanced at the bedroom door and reached in and pulled out the bag containing the loot. He took out the piles of banded $100 bills and laid them on the coffee table. That cheered him up somewhat. At the bottom of the bag was another item. Oh right, he thought, he'd forgotten he'd taken that as well. It was a box. About eight inches long, it was an inch thick. He was thinking it was probably a piece of jewelry. He didn't like stealing jewelry—too hard to fence—but he might get lucky with this one.
