Blood Hunt

just cruise past? I mean literally.”

Duhart was wide-eyed. “You mean a boat?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never been on a boat in my life, excepting a couple of ferries.”

“I’ve been on boats a lot. I’ll teach you.”

Duhart looked skeptical.

“It’s worth a shot,” said Reeve. “Besides, I’m paying, re-member?”

Which was about as much argument as Eddie Duhart needed.

Next day, on their way to rent a boat, they passed the Watergate Hotel. The rental place was actually a club, and not supposed to rent, but Eddie had promised quiet cash and the boat back within a couple of hours. The owner wanted a deposit, too, and that had to be negotiated. But eventually it was agreed. They had their boat.

It was a two-person motorboat, though the motor wasn’t exactly powerful. There was a rowing club next door, and Reeve feared they’d be overtaken by scullers. They were in possession of a good map, which showed they were about fifteen miles from Mount Vernon. According to Duhart, they’d come to the house before that. Neither man discussed how they would actually recognize the house as belonging to Jeffrey Allerdyce. Reeve was trusting to instinct. And at least they were doing something. He didn’t mind reconnaissance when there was something to reconnoiter, but so far they’d been staring at smoke.

It was a fine day of sharp sunshine and scudding thin wisps of high cloud. There was a stiff breeze at their back as they puttered down the Potomac. They passed Alexandria on their right, and Duhart said they’d be coming to the district soon where Allerdyce had his home. Reeve had brought a small pair of green rubberized binoculars. They were discreet but powerful. They hadn’t been cheap, but as Wayne had said, they were marine-standard. Reeve had them around his neck as he steered, giving the throttle an occasional twist to push up the revs on the engine. He was wearing his tourist clothes today, plus sunglasses purchased on the plane from London and a white sailing hat borrowed from the boat’s owner.

After they’d left Alexandria behind, Reeve slowed the boat down. “Remember,” he said, “we’ll get two stabs at this, so don’t fret. Try to look casual.”

Duhart nodded. The breeze had kicked around and was rocking the boat a bit. Duhart hadn’t gone green at the gills exactly, but he wasn’t saying much, like he was concentrating on his breathing.

They came to a row of palatial houses, two- and three-storied, with pillars and porches, gazebos and landing decks. Most carried polite signs warning boats against mooring. Reeve saw rectangular black arc lights dotted on lawns-movement-sensitive, he guessed. He saw an elderly man pushing a lawn mower across grass which looked like green baize. Duhart shook his head to let him know it wasn’t Allerdyce, as if he needed telling.

On one of the wood-slatted sundecks, a man lazed with his feet up on a stool, a drink on the arm of his chair. Behind him on the clipped lawn, a large dog chased a punctured red ball tossed by another man. The dog’s jaws snapped on the ball and shook it from side to side-your basic neck-break procedure. Reeve waved jauntily towards the man on the deck. The man waved back with three fingers, keeping one finger and a thumb around his glass, a very superior gesture. I’m up here, he was saying, and that’s a place you’ll never be.

But Reeve wasn’t so sure about that.

He was still watching the two men and the dog when Duhart puked.

It came up pink and half-digested, a half-sub special and a can of cherry Coke. The $3.49 brunch floated on the surface of the water while Duhart rested his forehead against the side of the boat. Reeve cut the engine and shuffled forward towards him.

“You okay?” he said, louder than was necessary.

“I’ll be fine-feel better already.”

Reeve was crouching close by him, his head angled as though staring at his friend’s face. But through the thick black lenses he was studying the layout of the garden where the man and the dog still played. He saw another dog pad around the side of the house, sniffing with its nose to the grass. When it saw there was a game in progress, it bounded onto the lawn. The first dog didn’t look too thrilled, and they snapped at each other’s faces until the man with the ball barked a command.

“Be still!”

And they both lay down in front of him.

The man on the deck was still watching the boat. He’d made no comment, hadn’t even wrinkled his face at the sudden jetsam. Reeve patted Duhart’s back and returned to the back of the boat, restarting the outboard. He decided he had an excuse to turn back, so brought the boat around, bringing him closer to where the dogs were now playing together.

“Hey,” the man with the dogs called to his friend, “your turn to check if Blood’s crapped on the front lawn!”

It was the sort of confirmation Reeve needed. The two men weren’t owners-they weren’t even guests-they were guards, hired hands. None of the other houses seemed to boast the same level of protection. He’d been told that Allerdyce was a very private man, an obsessive-just the kind of person to have security men and guard dogs, and maybe even more than that. Reeve scanned the lawn but couldn’t see any obvious security-no trips or cameras. Which didn’t mean they weren’t there. He couldn’t explain it, but he got the feeling he’d located Allerdyce’s house.

He counted the other homes, the ones between Allerdyce’s and the end of the building land. There were five of them. Driving out from Alexandria, he would pass five large gates. The sixth gate would belong to the head of Alliance Investigative.

Reeve was looking forward to meeting him.

They set off back to the boat club, then drove back out towards Allerdyce’s home. Duhart hadn’t said much; he still looked a bit gray. Reeve counted houses, then told him to pull over. To the side of the gate was an intercom with a camera above it. Behind the gate, an attack dog loped past. The stone walls on either side of the gates were high, but not impossible. There was nothing on the top of them, no wire or glass or spikes, all of which told Reeve a lot.

“You wouldn’t go in for all the security we’ve seen, then leave the walls around your house unprotected,” he said.

“So?”

“So there must be some sensing devices.”

“There are the dogs.”

Reeve nodded. “There are the dogs,” he agreed. But when the dogs weren’t around, there would be other measures, less visible, harder to deal with. “I just hope they’re a permanent feature,” he said.

The inflatable dinghy was big enough for one fully grown man, and a cheap buy.

That night, Duhart drove Reeve out to Piscataway Park, on the other side of the Potomac from Mount Vernon.

“Half of me wants to come with you,” Duhart whispered at water’s edge.

“I like the other half of you better,” Reeve said. He was blacked up-clothes, balaclava, and face paint bought at Wayne’s-not because he thought he’d need it, more for the effect he thought it might have on Allerdyce. And on anyone else for that matter. All he had to do was paddle across the river and upstream a mile or so-in silence, under cover of darkness, without anything giving him away. He hoped there were no garden parties in progress, no late-night drinks on the sundeck. He hoped there wasn’t too much traffic on the Potomac this time of night.

He felt the way he had done at the start of so many missions: not scared at all, but excited, energized, ready for it. He remembered now why he’d loved Special Forces: he’d lived for risk and adrenaline, life and death. Everything had a startling clarity at moments like this: a sliver of moon in bristling reflection on the edge of the water; the moist whites of Duhart’s eyes and the creases in his cheek when he winked; the tactile feel of the plastic oar, its grip grooved out for his four fingers. He splashed ankle deep into the water and eased into the dinghy. Duhart waved him off. The PI had his instructions. He was to go somewhere they knew him-a bar, anyplace. It had to be some way away. He was to stay there and get himself noticed. Those were his instructions.