their search. In the dream, Tisa didn’t call out to her brother and swim away. In the dream, she stayed by Mercer’s side. In the dream Mercer was happy.
Reality came with the discreet chime of a Tiffany alarm clock. Mercer woke with an emptiness the past few days of activity had been unable to fill. The light filtering through the skylight above his bed was sodden and gray. The third straight day of rain matched his mood perfectly.
He turned to disable the alarm and came face-to-face with a long muzzle and red droopy eyes. Drag had been awaiting his chance. Now that Mercer was awake, the basset hound began to lick at his face, his tail thumping against the blankets like a sluggish metronome. Since Mercer’s return from Greece, the mangy dog had forgone his master, asleep on the barroom couch, and settled on the king-sized bed. Each morning he’d waited for the alarm before adding his own wet affection to prod Mercer out of bed.
“Those aren’t the kisses I wanted,” Mercer said as he scratched the hound’s floppy ears, “but I appreciate the gesture.” Drag wormed his way partially under the covers and presented his substantial belly for a little attention.
The dream always left Mercer bathed in sweat, so while Drag burrowed deeper into the warm spot on the bed and snored blissfully, Mercer took a quick shower and dressed, putting on jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Down at the bar getting coffee from the automatic machine he looked fondly at Harry White asleep on the couch, his prosthetic leg on the floor next to him, his mouth slack. Harry had slept over ever since Mercer had returned. Although they hadn’t talked much beyond the bare facts of the past few weeks, Harry recognized that Mercer was hurting and refused to leave him alone. He’d wait until hell froze over for Mercer to be ready to discuss what he was feeling.
Drag sauntered down the spiral stairs, passed the bar and continued to the foyer, his nails clicking against the tile until he reached the front door. He woofed softly, demanding to go out.
By the time Mercer returned from the walk around the block, Harry was sitting on his customary stool with a cigarette between his lips. He’d poured himself a cup of Mercer’s tarry coffee rather than make his own pot and had a pen ready to do the
“You know,” Harry rasped, then cleared his throat. His voice didn’t improve. “Drag got used to sleeping in your bed when you were gone. If you let me have it back, he wouldn’t bother you in the morning.”
“It’s not the bed, Harry — it’s the fact you get up to take a leak a dozen times a night.”
“What can I say? I’ve always had a small bladder.”
“Small bladder, enlarged prostate, tomato, tomahto.”
“Potato, potahto, let’s call the whole thing off.” Harry sipped at his coffee and made a face. “You got any Bloody Mary mix back there?”
“Yeah. It’s that crap Tiny pawned off on me. You won’t like it.”
Harry dismissed Mercer’s warning with a wave. “You think I’m drinking it for the mix? Just use good vodka.”
Mercer snorted, thinking that Harry White should be added to death and taxes as life’s inevitabilities. He fixed the drink and placed it next to Harry’s ashtray.
“So are you spending your day on the computer again?” Harry asked, wrapping his long fingers around the glass.
Mercer had spent the first twelve hours after his arrival at Dulles Airport three days ago being debriefed by Ira Lasko and a joint team of CIA and FBI agents. He told them everything he knew about Tisa, her organization, the attack on the ferry, and her cryptic final words, which he still didn’t understand. He’d been through such meetings before and was able to keep his temper in check as they went over the same information again and again, trying to coax more out of him. At the end of the debrief, the agents had packed up their recorders, cameras, and notebooks and left the conference room near Ira’s office without comment.
Mercer and Ira were alone. “Now what?” Mercer had asked.
“Now nothing,” Ira said. “They’ll write up their report and fill in any gaps they can. I’ll go over it and forward it to my boss, who might or might not pass it to the president.”
“Ira, Tisa Nguyen laid her life on the line to convince me that her group can predict earthquakes. I’m sure she didn’t do it just to impress me. I think something big is coming, something she wanted, no,
“This Leper Alma she mentioned?”
“Yes. She told me the where, but didn’t have time to give me the when. Now I admit I have no idea what Leper Alma means, if it’s a place or the name of a nuclear power plant or what. But I think that whatever it is it’s about to be destroyed by an earthquake or a volcano.”
“We’ll look into it, of course.”
“Look into it?” Mercer snorted. “I’m the one who brought you this information and you’re cutting me out of the loop.”
“I’m not cutting you out,” Ira shot back, “but Christ, look at yourself. You’re a mess. You’ve pushed yourself for the past month without a break. Let the analysts do their job while you get some rest. In a day or two I’ll call and let you know what they’ve come up with.”
“Meanwhile Tisa is God knows where and no one’s going to lift a finger to help her.” Mercer was disgusted.
“For the time being that’s out of my hands. You’ve given us a lot and it’s going to take a while to substantiate your claims.”
“Claims? How many people died when Donny Randall blew up that ferry? Forty? Fifty?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Wouldn’t you call that substantiation that these bastards need to be stopped?”
“And they will be, but I’m not going off half-cocked.”
“The way you’re acting I doubt you even have half a one,” Mercer said angrily, twisting Ira’s cliche. “Are we through here?”
Ira held Mercer’s gaze but said nothing. As soon as Mercer closed the door behind him, Lasko shook his head and reached for the phone book in a bottom desk drawer. He found the number he wanted.
“Tiny’s.”
Ira recognized Paul Gordon’s high-pitched voice. “Paul, this is Ira Lasko. I’m a friend of Mercer’s. I’ve been at your bar a few times with him.”
“Yeah, I remember. What can I do you for?”
“Have you seen Harry White?”
“Morning, noon, and night.”
“Any idea where he is right now?”
“In the can. Hold on, he’s coming out now. Want to talk to him?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Admiral,” Harry boomed. “What’s going on? Where’s Mercer?”
“He’s back. Just left my office.” Ira paused, thinking how he wanted to phrase his next statement. “I’m worried about him. Something happened to him in Greece. I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“What happened?”
Ira told Harry about how the ferry was sunk.
“That ain’t it,” Harry said. “Mercer’s been in worse jams than that. What else?”
“Well, there was this woman.”
“Ah, now we’re getting someplace. What happened to her?”
“Mercer went to meet her. She had some information. After they escaped the ferry she was kidnapped by the group she belonged to.”
“Terrorist group?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Harry said. “You’ve known Mercer a couple of years, but not the way I do. What you gotta understand is he’s basically an overgrown Boy Scout and he takes responsibility for everything and everyone around him. It’s what drives him. Right now he’s blaming himself for that woman getting nabbed and he’s not going to stop until he gets her back.”
