His cellphone rang.
He stopped the cart and checked the display.
Shirley Kaiser.
He should not ignore her, so he answered and said, “I planned to call you later. I thought you were at a fund-raiser this evening.”
“I skipped it.”
“Feeling poorly?”
“Not at all. In fact, I feel great. So much so I took a trip. I’m here, in North Carolina, parked at the gate to the estate. Do you think you could let me in?”
SIXTY
He’d arrived on Paw Island before Wyatt and, with two associates, assumed strategic positions atop the crumbling walls of Fort Dominion. They’d stolen a boat from a private dock at an unoccupied home along the bay’s north shore, specifically avoiding the town of Chester, where Wyatt might appear. The craft came with flashlights and he’d smuggled in three weapons aboard the corporate jet-Canadian customs asking few questions on his arrival.
The island locale was both isolated and deserted, save for thousands of stinking birds. Night’s ever-hastening arrival should provide them with more than enough privacy. All in all, this should be an easy kill. Hopefully, finding the missing pages would not take long, though the information Carbonell provided to Hale was obscure at best. Five symbols. She’d said that was all she possessed and, hopefully, their significance would become evident once he was on the ground. He’d be glad when this nightmare was over. He was actually looking forward to spending next weekend with his wife at the beach. A little relaxation would be a good thing.
He’d brought a pair of binoculars and used them to survey where the forest ended and a grassy meadow began. About a hundred yards of open terrain stretched from the trees to the fort’s main gate, none of it fenced or restricted. Their arrival inside earlier had caused an uproar from the residents, but all was calm once again in bird land.
He caught movement in the dimming light.
Through the binoculars he spotted a man emerging from the trees.
He focused on the face.
Jonathan Wyatt.
He grabbed the attention of one of his men, stationed on another rampart, and tossed him a signal.
Their target had arrived.
HALE WELCOMED SHIRLEY KAISER INTO HIS HOME. SHE’D VISITED twice before, and each time he’d ensured that nothing unusual occurred on the grounds. They called it visitor mode. Of course, guests were never taken to certain areas, like the prison building, whose exterior looked like nothing more than a two-story barn, and were not encouraged to roam at will.
He wondered what she was doing here.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise?” he asked her.
She looked great. Though pushing sixty-or maybe even sixty-five, he really wasn’t sure-she cast the appearance of a woman in her midfifties. He’d enjoyed seducing her and she’d seemed to enjoy it, too. Their relationship, though cultivated by him for an ulterior motive, had not been unpleasant. Passion stirred within her, and she was surprisingly uninhibited for a woman of her generation. She was also a wealth of information on the First Family and liked the fact that he seemed sincerely interested in her life. That was the key to women, his father had always said. Make them think you care.
“I missed you,” she said to him.
“We were planning on seeing each other in a few days.”
“I couldn’t wait, so I chartered a flight and flew down.”
He smiled. Her timing was not all bad. The evening was quiet. He’d already checked on the other three captains. Each had returned to his home, enough excitement for one day.
“As you can see,” he said, “I was going fishing. I assume you don’t want to join me.”
“Hardly.” She motioned to a small overnight bag. “I brought some special garments.”
He’d seen a sampling of those before.
“Wouldn’t they be more interesting than fishing?”
WYATT THOUGHT FORT DOMINION LOOKED BETTER SUITED TO Scotland or Ireland, its limestone walls splayed at the base and once reinforced by towers, its bastions decaying but still relatively intact. Eroded earthworks and a dry moat barred any approach from the north, west, or east, and the ocean guarded the south. The setting sun cast the gray stone in a rose-colored hue, but any impression of invincibility was betrayed by the rubble. From what he’d read, this had once been a theater of important events, its mission to hold Mahone Bay for King George, but now it was only a ruin.
Puffins lined the wall crests. Hundreds more fluttered in the evening sky. He’d heard the murmur of murres, gulls, gannets, and kittiwakes on his approach-rich, sensuous, hypnotic, swelling like thunder. Thousands of birds stained the rubble, their cries pitching then fading in a haunting harmony, the walls alive with a riotous motion.
He crossed a grassy field toward the main gate.
Dead birds lay everywhere.
Apparently, there were no native scavengers here besides bacteria. The waft, faint back at the cove, now become overpowering. A choking smell of countless creatures packed together, the air clotted with the sickening scent of life, death, and excrement.
He approached the main gate.
A wooden bridge spanned a washed-out moat, its boards newer and fitted with galvanized nails.
A rising roar from the residents protested his arrival.
He passed through the gate, beneath a row of parallel stone arches.
Sunlight dimmed.
He entered an inner ward where it was downright dark, save for dusty shafts of blue light that filtered in through gaps in the walls. More weathered stone rose three stories around him. A variety of buildings hugged the outer curtain, the inner walls broken by windows that no longer held anything save for vines.
Definitely a feeling of security here, but also one of being trapped.
He should look around.
So he plunged ahead.
MALONE BEACHED THE BOAT ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF PAW ISLAND. The evening air carried an aroma of salt and trees, along with something else-acidic and astringent. The sky had turned the color of slate, the forest casting violet shadows over the sandy inlet. Herring gulls decorated the trees.
His rubber soles crunched crab shells and dried urchins. The temperature had dropped and he was glad for a lined jacket. Thick stands of oak lay ahead, the woods bedded with ferns and heather. He turned back and studied the bay for boats. Crimson patches of fading sun colored the surface. The horizon remained empty.
The bookstore owner had told him where in the fort symbols could be found. Were they decoration? Graffiti? Old? New? During the summer months when visits were allowed fifty-plus people a day roamed the island, which meant, as she’d told him, the symbols could have come from anywhere. Except that he knew Andrew Jackson was aware of their presence in 1835.
Perhaps the president himself had them placed there?
Who knew?
CASSIOPEIA PARKED THE MOTORCYCLE AT A COMFORT INN JUST inside the Fredericksburg city limits.
