Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (41 page)

Beth’s neighbor Janet Raffety–she’d let him use the phone. He walked across the street and looked for any sign of activity. If she was working in the kiln, he didn’t want to disturb her. The house was quiet, but a glow came from her shop.

The next pang hit him harder as the extra-bold French roast etched a hole in his stomach lining. Louie probed a Mayflower cluster when Clint caught the leash and went back to the truck. Louie scrambled into the back seat, and Clint drove off.

Thirty-five miles from Boston, the tourist town of Clement had few businesses operating this time of year. Even fewer opened at this hour. Clint decided his best shot was near the freeway. The congregation of trucks outside Maggie Mae’s Blue Bird Diner lit his hope.

Maggie Mae was a large, hairy man in his sixties with a round, fleshy face. Clad in a red-striped apron and matching cap, his picture could only be completed with the addition of a burning cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Armed with twin decanters of fresh coffee, he made his way round the tables of regulars chatting up each in turn. A quiet man by diner standards, he gave instructions to the kitchen staff by means of hand gestures, facial expressions, and head movements–a performance Marcel Marceau would have admired.

Clint found the pay phone by the restrooms–naturally. He dropped in some coins and called Beth.

After four rings Beth’s voice answered, “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll return it when I can.”

“Hey, it’s me. Pick up the phone.” He waited for the click of her receiver, for the happy lilt to her voice when she said his name, for a swift end to his growing sense of loss.

“Beth, are you there? We had plans today, remember?” No reply. “I’ll try your other phone.”

He smacked down the receiver. Damn it. They’d made a date. Breakfast was her idea, and she promised breakfast would be ready at six-thirty sharp. They planned to go fishing for striper and meet up with Abe later. It was nearly seven. Where the hell was she?

After digging around his pocket, he came up with more change and placed a call to her cell phone. Voice mail kicked in after three rings. “It’s me, Clint. I’ve tried all the numbers I know. I’m going to grab something for us to eat and come back. Hope you’re up by then.”

The clank of dishes rising from the dining room joggled Clint’s attention to his hunger. He ordered four breakfast burritos and coffee at the counter. He took the to-go bag and drove back to her house.

He banged on her front door until his hand hurt. She would have heard that. Fear tiptoed through his veins. If she could.

He ran to the kitchen window. From here, he could see her bed and Beth wasn’t in it. He moved to another window to check the bath. The shower curtain was pulled back, and unless she was in the tub, she wasn’t there either. Calm down. She’s in good health, considering. She’s not going to keel over from a day’s delay in her dialysis. At least that’s what she told him.

“Enough of this. Let’s eat.”

Clint turned on the water spigot long enough to make a puddle for the dog and plopped down on Beth’s porch rocker. His long legs draped over a milk can painted with rose buds, cherry blossoms, and blue hydrangeas that Beth said were the same hue as Clint’s eyes.

Yeah. Sure.

He poured salsa from a plastic ramekin onto one burrito and tossed another to Louie. The dog intercepted the package like an NFL cornerback. He hoisted the food around with his teeth, biting it and choking large chunks down his throat.

Clint finished his meal and wadded all the trash back in the original bag. He took his boot knife out of the sheath and threw it into a tree. Louie retrieved it. With each toss, the knife stuck where he aimed. The activity helped pass the time and freed his brain for thinking. Interest in the game waned before he’d done any lasting damage to the bark.

He stared at Beth’s door, but decided against trying again. “It’s her turn. Huh, Lou?”

When he hit the road in front of Beth’s, he saw Janet pulling a large box from an old Subaru wagon. He called to her, and ran over to her side. “Allow me?”

“Why thanks.” She hauled out another box. “These go in the shop.” She led the way.

“I was looking for Beth. Have you seen her this morning?”

“No, I’ve been loading my kiln. What’s up?”

He stepped into the shop and set the box down. “I was due at her place for breakfast, but she’s not around.”

They returned to the wagon for more boxes.

Clint knew Beth hadn’t told Janet about the dialysis. Beth preferred to keep some details of her life private. After the continuing saga of Paige, he found such discretion refreshing.

They landed the last load into Janet’s shop.

“Thanks for your help.”

“If you see Beth, let her know I came by.”

“Will do.”

Louie led him back to the truck by the main road for the all-important tree survey. For a dog that lived on a boat, wooded lots represented the ultimate in luxury. Clint loaded Louie in the truck. He threw the bag with Beth’s burrito on the floorboard and drove off for home, spinning his rear wheels in the effort.

Along the coast road, the surf vibrated with a crystalline sheen. They should have been out there by now, together. He and Beth.

He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Not perfect, but simply enchanting. Ah hell, admit it, she was perfect. Her bamboo-shoot green eyes sparkled amid her heart-shaped face. Golden tresses cascaded in loose ringlets all the way to her gorgeous butt.

Botticelli painted her only in his dreams.

But beauty never kept Clint engaged. Not like his buddy, Todd. Todd swapped women like designer ties. For Clint the packaging intrigued but any genuine gift remained hidden inside.

While Beth’s illness didn’t seem to worry her, it left him unnerved. She loomed fragile, ethereal, a morning mist that might seep through his hand. Like catching a butterfly, then opening your cupped hands slowly to see if it was there. When they were together, he caught himself checking to see if she was still in the room with him.

He tousled Louie’s furry neck. “I’ve only known her two months. Who needs this?”

Stood up by a damn butterfly.

Clint pulled into Clement Marina and parked. Louie stood on alert while Clint cleaned out the last two days mail from his box.

Merlin, one of the Clement Marina staff, walked up to them and sidled in close. “Guess what landed in your slip?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lass. An angelfish. She came looking for you, so I let her in. You let me know if you want to throw her back, mate. I’ll get my net.”

Jungle rhythms pummeled Clint’s chest. He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his pants. “Where is she?”

“At your boat.” Merlin rubbed on his scraggly chin. “A real swimmer, that one.”

Clint threw his backpack over a shoulder and headed to the security gate, down the gangway to his slip at the end of the dock. This time, Louie followed.

He looked back at the dog. “Why’d she come here?” Louie’s expression didn’t change.

Half the damn morning–gone. She knew they were meeting at her house. But he couldn’t stay mad because Beth was here, now.

He hated this feeling. Neediness. It didn’t suit him. He didn’t want it to suit him. But his relief trumped any anger.

She was here now. That’s all that mattered.

She didn’t stand him up.

She just changed the plans.

She—

She wasn’t Beth.

Paige Masters sat on the port gunwale of Clint’s 45-foot sailboat. Even with the expansive view of the harbor, the glorious Atlantic beyond, there she sat filing her acrylic fingernails.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. Your cell phone isn’t working.” She finally looked up at Clint. “What’s the matter? Can’t afford the payments anymore?” Her third-grade smile glowed with the intensity of a lighthouse as seen from the battered ship.

For a moment, Clint stopped breathing.

In less than five months, their divorce would be final.

Technology and future ex-wives. Both highly unreliable.

 

 

 

 

Description

 

 

At CIA headquarters, a young officer discovers that terrorists may have commandeered their computer systems to launch an unauthorized mission. Elsewhere, conspirators abduct nine people to manipulate the rules of their game. Two disparate ambitions — Clint Masters becomes the reluctant link in the chain of danger.

 

Ever since Clint’s almost ex-wife dumped him, he bobs along the Massachusetts coast in a sailboat with his black lab for company. He avoids all forms of technology, a counterintuitive effort for the burned-out founder of CatSat Laboratories. Tired of clutching the brass ring, he needed to untether, step off the corporate treadmill, and smell a flower. Fortunately, he met one, a beautiful, unspoiled woman who doesn’t treat him like a commodity. His relationship with Beth offers more promise than his marriage ever did, even if she is on dialysis for her recovering kidneys, until she disappears.

In spite of the evidence, her family refuses to admit she’s in danger. Without routine dialysis, she won’t survive. As Clint realizes that he loves Beth, damn-near ex-wife Paige sashays back into his life with disturbing news.

While the CIA young gun tracks his quarry, Clint enlists the help of two men to find Beth, a blithe Brit named Merlin, and Todd, his playboy partner-in-tech. But Clint must find Beth before her kidneys fail. And before someone unloads a bullet in his head.

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

By six-thirty a.m., Baxter Cruise lounged at the corner table of Whitney’s coffee bar, wiping away a frothy milk moustache with his sleeve. He swirled the dregs of a Cappuccino in the ceramic mug while a gangly freshman tried to make time with the surfer-girl barista. She was clearly uninterested. The young man’s frustration passed for entertainment while Baxter waited for Professor Sydney Mantis. Syd usually sent their client’s pitch-list via email, but today, he’d sent a text from a new phone demanding face time.

 

Instead of wasting a precious morning, Baxter should’ve blasted another 225,000 emails or let his ratware scrape more addresses from the geezer forums. Either action would have netted him enough cash to cover the cost of the java and maybe some additional credits at UC Santa Cruz. He didn’t plan to get stuck with any student loans to repay.

His fingertips hit the tabletop in rhythmic succession. He should have brought his laptop. Where the hell was Sydney? Didn’t he know? Time was money, man. Time was money.

A petite woman with a UC-logo sweatshirt held the door for an elderly couple shuffling toward the entrance. Her cheeks dimpled as the couple kept pace with the old woman’s walker. When Sydney Mantis jockeyed around all three of them, her smile dropped to a scowl. Sydney’s usual easy charm seemed under pressure. Wearing a Baja hoodie and aviator sunglasses, he looked like the Unabomber.

“Bax, thank God you’re still here.” He withdrew a shaking hand from the pouch pocket and tossed a flash drive onto Baxter’s lap. “I need you to take this to Dr. Bisch. She’ll be in the office by the time you get there. But don’t leave it on her desk.” His gaze ricocheted around the room, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “Make sure you hand it to her personally. I need to leave town for a few days.”

Baxter retrieved the flash drive from the folds around his crotch. “What about our new client?”

But Sydney’s attention fixed outside.

A man in harmony with the ‘60s, he dialed to mellow even if it required herbal assistance. Baxter figured he was one toke over his usual line.

“I can’t stay here.” For the first time since arriving, Sydney pulled off his sunglasses to make eye contact. “Will you take care of Gertrude for me?” A thick vein throbbed at his neck, muscles twitched across his face, and his pupils dilated to ripe-olive proportions.

Sydney didn’t look stoned. Simply terrified.

“Trudy?” Baxter always liked Sydney’s Border Collie. Sure, I’ll watch her for you.” Baxter didn’t know what else to say.

“Thanks, man.” Sydney wiped an eye. “I’ve got to go.” He put on his sunglasses and returned to the dull gray of the morning fog.