He was surprised to see two cars parked at the far side of the island’s dirt parking lot. It looked like more people than he thought had those prized windshield passes. He got out and took his flashlight, played it around the interiors of both cars. One was empty. In the other was a man and woman in the backseat, so busy that they didn’t even notice Sam’s presence.
He scanned the lot. Called out, “Tony? You out here?”
He moved down the path, the flashlight beam slicing a wide area ahead of him, and then—
A noise. He whipped to his left, let his light play out.
A man stood there, trying to move away.
“Freeze! Portsmouth police! Don’t move!”
He drew his revolver, held the flashlight out, saw a man standing there, his back to him.
Another man scrambled to his feet before the first man, holding a hand up to his face to block the light. He wore the dress blues of a sailor. “Hey, pal, get the light outta my face, will ya?” came the sheepish voice, with a thick New York accent.
Sam saw the other man adjust his pants and shook his head at what he had just interrupted. He lowered the light. “All right, sailor, beat it.”
“Uh…” The sailor backed away, “Not sure how to get back. This fella gave me a ride.”
“Oh, Christ, the both of you just beat it. You, turn around.”
Now something was familiar, something was wrong, for he knew this man, knew him very well.
The mayor of Portsmouth, his father-in-law, the honorable Lawrence Young. With his pants around his knees.
“Sam.” His head was tilted so he wasn’t looking at the man who had married his daughter.
“Pull your pants up, all right?”
Lawrence bent over, yanked up his trousers, drew the zipper up, and fastened the belt. “Look, this isn’t what you—”
“Larry, you never gave a damn what I’ve thought, so why start now?”
“It’s just the pressure, you know? The summit and the President coming and—Just a onetime thing, that’s all. Something to take the pressure off.”
Sam edged the flashlight beam back up to his father-in-law’s face, knowing he couldn’t tell the bastard anything about Sarah and his grandson, for LaCouture had made it clear: Only by getting Tony would they get out of Camp Carpenter. Bringing in Lawrence… Christ, who knew how that could complicate things? But there was something else that had to be said.
“Larry, you ever hear of a street over in Kittery called Admiral’s Way?”
“Perhaps… I’m not sure… Why?”
“Cut the crap. Some months ago I went along with some Maine state troopers and Kittery cops on a raid at a whorehouse on Admiral Way. Nice, quiet Victorian house. I was just observing, but you know what? Something I observed was you coming out in handcuffs. How the hell did you think you got freed that night? Because of your voting record? No, I asked a favor from one of the Kittery cops. So he went over and uncuffed you.”
Lawrence’s face was ghostly white, and he was trembling. Sam added, “Oh, and another thing I observed was the staff of that particular whorehouse. Young boys dressed as girls.” His father-in-law rubbed a hand across his face as if hiding his eyes. “So don’t tell me lies, okay?” Sam said.
“Look, can I get the hell out of here?” Lawrence’s voice was raspy.
“Yeah, you can go. And you know what? Don’t come back. Ever. I never want to see you at my house.”
“Why? Because you know one of my dark, deep secrets? Is that it? You too good to have secrets you’re not proud of, Sam?”
Sam clenched the flashlight tighter. “Go. Get out of here.”
“Some inspector. You think you know everything about me, everything about how I think and work. Kid, you know shit—”
Lawrence pushed past him, heading back to the parking lot, and Sam spent a fruitless hour longer on the dark island, looking for his brother.
INTERLUDE IX
He waited outside the Laughing Gull, one of the many bars near the harbor. The windows were blackened, and the wooden sign dangling outside was cracked and faded. Even with the summit crackdown, business was doing all right at this bar and its neighbors. Every time some cops or guys in good suits strolled by, he made sure to stay in the shadows. He waited, watching, in the spill of loud jazz music, the smell of beer and cigarettes and cigars. Sailors in dress whites came stumbling down the cobblestone lane, and when the laughing and singing group of men passed on, a man was standing at the street corner. He watched as the man took a cigarette out and tried to light it three times with a lighter that didn’t catch.
He walked across the street, offered him a book of matches. The man looked at him and said, “Thanks, mate.” His accent was English.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “That a Lucky Strike?”
“Nope, a Camel.”
“I see.”
The man lit the cigarette, gave him back the matches, took a drag, then dropped the lit butt on the ground. “C’mon, let’s talk private, all right?”
He followed as the man walked around the corner into another alley that stank of trash and piss. The Englishman said, “Not much time, so here it goes. Tomorrow’s the day.”
“I figured,” he said. The words seemed as heavy as stones coming out of his mouth.
“Good on you,” the man said. “But there’s been a change for tomorrow.”
The whole damn street seemed to tip on its side, making him feel like he was going to fall over. “What kind of change?”
“Target change.”
“The fuck you say.”
“Bloody hell, mate, I’m just the messenger, all right? All I know is, it’s got to be done, and I got to know, are you going to do what you’re told? Because that’s the deal you signed on for, right?”
He clenched his fists tight, then thought for a moment and said, “Yeah. That’s the deal I signed on for. You’re right. So what’s the change?”
The Englishman said, “We go for a walk. We see someone. You get told there. All right?”
He thought again of everything he had planned, everything he had gone through to reach this point, to hear it was all being altered.
“All right,” he said. “As long as what I’m doing tomorrow is not a waste.”
The other man chuckled. “Oh, it might be something, but it won’t be a waste. I got something going on as well… and I can’t say more than that. Another thing—your brother.”
“What about him?”
“You’ll be briefed about him and everything else, just so you’re not surprised.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said, thinking,
The Englishman said, “C’mon, we’ve got to get moving. Look, can I borrow those matches again?”
“Sure,” he said, passing over the pack. The man lit a match, let it flare up in the darkness, then dropped it.
“What the—” Suddenly, it all made sense. “A signal?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And if you hadn’t lit the match?”
“That meant you didn’t agree with the target change.” The Englishman sounded apologetic. “And it meant that some nasty gentlemen watching from the other side of the lane here wouldn’t have let you live.”
