“That had a distinctly unfriendly sound to it,” Sam said. “Let’s try this one more time: Who are you and what’s your business with our friend?”
Another curse, this one a full sentence.
“Didn’t think so,” Sam said. “Well, better luck next time, pal.”
With that he leaned forward and swung the rebar in a tight arc, tapping the man behind the ear with what he hoped was just enough force. Rebar wasn’t the most delicate of weapons. The man grunted and went limp.
“Here’s hoping we never meet again,” Sam said, then turned and started running.
CHAPTER 6
Here, Ted, drink this,” Sam said, handing Frobisher a snifter of warm brandy.
“What is it?” Frobisher grumbled. Surprising neither Sam nor Remi, Ted’s adventure in the boiler graveyard had done nothing to improve his disposition. Then again, Ted wouldn’t be Ted if he were sunny.
“Just drink it,” Remi said and gave his hand a pat.
Frobisher took a gulp, scrunched up his face, then took a second gulp.
Sam put another log on the fire, then joined Remi on the love seat. Frobisher sat opposite them in a wingback chair, wrapped in a flannel blanket and fresh from a hot shower.
After leaving Frobisher’s mystery man lying in the mud, Sam had sprinted back to the BMW, which Remi had turned around and pulled up to the driveway. His decision to leave before the police had been an instinctive one: Though they’d done nothing wrong, being embroiled in a police investigation would also entangle them with Frobisher’s attacker. Sam’s gut told him the more distance they put between themselves and the man, the better.
With Sam back in the car they’d sped back down Black Road, then headed west on Mount Vernon Road. Thirty seconds later they saw flashing lights come around the corner behind them and pull onto Black Road. At Sam’s direction Remi did a quick U-turn, pulled over to the shoulder, and doused the headlights, waiting until the emergency responders—a police cruiser and a fire truck, it appeared—reached the boiler graveyard. She then pulled out and headed back toward Princess Anne. Forty minutes later they were back in their room at the B&B.
“How do you feel?” Sam asked Frobisher.
“How do you think I feel? I’ve been kidnapped and assaulted.”
Frobisher was in his mid sixties and bald save a monk’s fringe of silver. He wore a pair of Ben Franklin half- glasses; behind them, his eyes were a pale, watery blue. Other than being wet and cold and shaken up, the only leftover from his ordeal was a badly bruised and swollen right cheek where the man had pistol-whipped him.
“Kidnapped and assaulted is better than kidnapped, assaulted, and killed,” Sam observed.
“I suppose,” he replied, then grumbled something under his breath.
“What was that, Ted?”
“I said, thanks for rescuing me.”
“I bet that hurt to say,” Remi replied.
“You have no idea. But I mean it. Thanks. Both of you.” He drained the last of his brandy, then held out the snifter for more. Remi obliged.
“So what happened?” Sam asked.
“I was dead asleep and I woke up to someone pounding on my door. I asked who it was through the door and he said, ‘Stan Johnston, from down the road.’ He said Cindy—his wife—was sick and their phone wasn’t working.”
“Is there a Stan Johnston?” Sam asked.
“Of course there’s a Stan Johnston. The next farmhouse to the north.”
This meant something, Sam knew. Judging from the attacker’s accent it seemed reasonable to assume he wasn’t a local, which meant he’d planned out his raid of Ted’s house, going as far as finding out the names of his neighbors for use in his ploy.
During his time at DARPA Sam had had enough interaction with case officers from the CIA’s Clandestine Service to know how they thought and how they worked. Everything Frobisher’s attacker had done screamed “professional.” But a professional for whom? And to what end?
“So you opened the door . . .” Remi prompted Frobisher.
“So I opened the door and he rushes in, pushes me to the floor, and shoves that gun in my face. He starts asking questions, shouting at me—”
“About?”
“Some shard of glass. It was nothing, the punt from a wine bottle. He wanted to know where it was, so I told him. He tied up my hands with some kind of tape, then went into the shop, rummaged around—broke God knows what in the process—then came back with the piece and started asking where I’d found it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“I don’t remember exactly. I really don’t. It was on the Pocomoke, somewhere south of Snow Hill. I was fishing and—”
“You fish?” Sam asked, surprised. “Since when?”
“Since forever, you idiot. What, you think I just sit around the shop all day fondling plates and doodads? As I was saying . . . I was fishing and I snagged something. It was a boot, an old leather boot. The shard was inside it.”
“You still have the boot?”
“What am I, a garbage man? No, I threw it back. It was an old rotted boot, Sam.”
Sam raised his hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. “Okay, okay. Go on. He started shouting questions at you and . . .”
“Then the phone rang.”
“That was me.”
“He asked if I was expecting anyone and I said yes, thinking he would leave. He didn’t. He dragged me to the car and drove me out to that place, whatever it was. That’s it. The rest you know.”
“He had it on him,” Sam muttered. “I should’ve searched him.”
“How many times do I have to say this, Sam? The piece was nothing. There was no label, no writing—just some kind of weird symbol.”
“What kind of symbol?”
“I don’t remember. There’s a picture on my website. I posted it, thinking someone might know what it was.”
“Remi, do you mind?” Sam asked.
She was already up, retrieving their laptop, which she set on the coffee table and powered up. Thirty seconds later she said. “Here, is this it, Ted?” She turned the laptop for him to see.
He squinted at the screen, then nodded. “Yep, that’s it. See, it’s nothing.”
Sam scooted closer to Remi and looked at the picture. As described, it looked like the concave bottom, or punt, of a green wine bottle. In the center of the punt was the symbol. Remi zoomed in until they could make it out:
Sam said, “That doesn’t look even remotely familiar. You?”
“No,” Remi replied. “And this doesn’t mean anything to you, Ted?”
“No, I already told you.”
“No strange phone calls or e-mails about it? No one showed any curiosity?”
Frobisher groaned. “No, no, and no. When can I go home? I’m tired.”
Sam said, “Ted, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What? Why?”
“He knows where you live—”
“Ah, he was just some nut. Probably high on something. It’s just a piece of wine bottle, for God’s sake, and he has it. It’s over.”
