The Dead Yard (23 page)

"Take him with us. Touched will know what to do," Seamus said.

"Slow us down," I said angrily.

"We’ll take him with us. Do as you’re told, this is my show," Seamus screamed.

"What about the explosives, Seamus?" Jackie asked.

"Why don’t you tell him all our names?" I said to Jackie and motioned the soldier to follow us
out of the armory.

"Forget them. Let’s just get the hell out of here," Seamus said.

"Come on, you," I said to the soldier. "Keep your hands above your head."

We ran across the range and I put the gun in the soldier’s back as we jogged down the
corridor. He was definitely older than me. Overweight, shaking, terrified. Jackie going ape-shit
at him didn’t help matters:

"Jesus, what the fuck were you doing in there? This place is supposed to be empty," he
said.

"I had to do the inventory," the soldier replied.

"You’re only supposed to be here on the weekends," Jackie said furiously.

"The colonel’s coming this weekend, we had to have it checked out and—" the guy began but
Seamus interrupted the explanation:

"Shut up. It doesn’t matter how it happened. It has happened," he said.

We sprinted down the corridor and ran outside just as a cop car pulled in on Route 1A in front
of the base.

"Over the wire," Seamus said. "Come on."

We ran to the rear fence.

"You, over it," Seamus told the soldier. All four of us scaled the fence. The state troopers
shone a powerful searchlight onto the base but we were well clear at the back. We crouched
low.

"They won’t see us," Jackie whispered.

We flattened ourselves into the reeds, Seamus pushing the soldier’s head down to the ground.
The spotlight passed us by and returned to the front of the base.

"Over here, over here," the soldier screamed, jumping up and waving his arms. The peelers
shone the light at the back and spotted us.

"Halt, you there," one of the cops yelled.

"You bloody fool," I said as Jackie and I pulled the soldier to the dirt.

Seamus took out his gun and shoved it into the soldier’s cheek.

"Try that again and you’re going to die," Seamus said.

"For Christ’s sake, come on. Let’s go," I yelled at Seamus.

Seamus put his gun in the soldier’s back, shoved him, and the four of us ran into the marsh
that led down to the Parker River.

The cops fired a warning shot into the air and came tearing after us. They’d either have to
run wide around the base or cut across the front fence, through the car park, and then climb the
back fence. But even so, they’d be on our heels pretty goddamn quick.

"Gotta ditch the army boy," I said to Seamus as we waded through the boggy grass.

"He’s seen our faces, you idiot. We take him to Touched," Seamus said furiously.

"We’ll never get away, they’ll have copters after us in a minute," Jackie said, sobbing a
little.

"Get a grip, Jackie. Come on. It’s totally dark. If we can make it to the Parker River, we can
wade in, float downstream into the wildlife refuge at the bottom of Plum Island, we’ll be ok,"
Seamus said.

It wasn’t a bad plan at that. The water wasn’t cold or fast moving. It might work.

"Better move fast then," I said.

Seamus nodded, encouraged by my approval.

"And you, no funny stuff, or I’ll fucking shoot ya," he said to the soldier.

We waded through swamp, and then solid water and then swamp again.

After about ten minutes we could hear many more cops behind us. Three or four backup units had
been called in, maybe a dozen cops altogether. Seamus, the soldier, and myself were still
together but Jackie, the fittest and fastest of us, was a couple of hundred yards ahead now. He
looked back to see if he should wait but Seamus waved him on. In another minute he was gone
completely.

"I think I see the river," I said.

It was a bloody miracle that the mud hadn’t sucked the shoes off my feet and it surely would
have if I’d still been wearing Converse high-tops, not these big Stanley work boots. Shoeless, I
would have been footless, and fucked.

As we got near the water the fat soldier slowed. He was out of shape and sweating but he
wasn’t exhausted just yet. He was planning something. I could sense it in his body language. I
kept an eye on him, waiting for him to jump either of us. But he didn’t. Instead, midrun he
tripped on a vine and fell. He landed heavily on the ground and grabbed at his leg.

"Get up," Seamus yelled at him. "Get the fuck up or I’ll shoot you."

"My leg, I’ve broken my leg," the man said, writhing in apparent agony.

"Get the fuck up, army boy," Seamus said.

"I can’t, my leg’s hurt," the soldier said.

I nodded at Seamus. There was no time to see if it was a lie or not. He had to make a
decision.

"We got to leave him now," I said.

Seamus looked at him, looked at me, listened to the cops coming closer and closer, nodded to
himself. He reached into his inside pocket, withdrew his flask, and took another drink. He
screwed the top on and raised his gun.

"What are you doing, Seamus?" I asked. "He’s lying, his leg’s fine. Get up, mate. Come on.
He’s lying."

"I know," Seamus said coldly. "It doesn’t matter, Sean, he’s seen our faces, have to do it,
Sean, no other way. I’m on fucking bail already. I can’t go down for this and the shooting at
Revere, I’d get twenty years."

"No, Seamus, wait a minute," I began, but he cut me off.

"I’m not going to die in prison, Sean. That’s what it comes down to. Now, obey orders and get
moving."

"It’s murder, Seamus," I said, but he wasn’t listening. He raised his .38 revolver and pointed
it at the soldier’s head.

"We have to kill him," he said but only to himself. His mind was made up.

"That’s the murder of a federal employee in the commission of another crime. That’s the
fucking death penalty."

"Oh please, please, please don’t do it," the soldier begged.

"Close your eyes, pal," Seamus said, his face in the moonlight, resigned, determined.

I lifted the soldier’s .45.

"Put the gun down, Seamus," I said.

He turned to look at me.

"You wouldn’t," he said.

"Put the gun down," I insisted.

"Fucking kill you, Sean. Kill ya both," he snarled and trained the gun on my chest.

The .45 banged.

A huge boom that stopped the cops in their tracks and set the birds a mile up and down the
Parker River panicking into the air. Seamus collapsed to his knees, half his head blown apart,
the skin on the other half hanging on to the skull by only a few blood vessels and nerve
endings.

I wiped his brains off my arm and face.

He knelt there, little spurts of blood gurgling from his mouth.

"Sorry, Seamus," I found myself saying.

His left eye blinked, he hovered on his knees for a second, and then slumped forward, stone
dead, into the boggy waters of the swamp.

Flints in the night sky. Oxidizing blood. Mosquitoes by the swarm and double swarm. A burning
smell on the warm, wet trade wind. And, as I stood there, holding the distinctive grip of a
smoking Colt .45, covered in filth, bleeding, soaked, a dead man at my feet, another man on his
knees in front of me begging for his life, I thought to myself: What else is new?

I sighed.

This is exactly what I was talking about when I said that trouble followed me like sharks
trailing a slave ship.

I spat, clearing the bitter taste in my throat.

"Please, sir, don’t kill me," the soldier said as the echo from the .45 rolled down the
river.

I thumbed the safety on the army-issue Colt and squatted down onto one knee.

"Listen," I began but stopped as a light plane flew above us and somewhere in the distance a
freaked-out cop unloaded his Glock into a harmless wading bird.

The soldier put his hands way up.

"I’m sorry about the fall. Please don’t shoot me, please, I’m getting married at Christmas. I
have, a, uh, a kid from my first marriage, please, oh God, please."

"Take it easy, you eejit, I’m an undercover FBI agent. Everything’s going to be all right," I
said.

His mouth opened in disbelief as he looked at me and then at Seamus’s blood oozing into the
Parker River.

"I don’t believe you, let me see your badge, let me—"

"Shut up. Now listen to me, we’ve got to buy some time. Help me drag Seamus into the
water."

The soldier balked and stared at me, petrified.

"You gotta work with me, mate, come on, I’m not going to kill you, look, I’m putting the gun
away," I said, taking the .45 and slipping it into my trouser pocket. I picked up Seamus by the
left leg and nodded for the soldier boy to lift the right. Dazed, confused, now he wanted to be
told what to do. He grabbed the leg and we dragged Seamus to the river’s edge. I floated him in
and watched him drift down towards the bottom of PI, Ipswich, and the ocean.

I climbed back up the bank.

"Please don’t kill me now," the soldier said.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one," he said hesitantly.

"Thirty-one. Old enough to know better. Fucking pull it together, mate."

"Ok, I’ll—"

"Be quiet. Follow me, we’re going into the water, quiet now, crouch low. Hurry up, this
way."

I got the soldier to bend down and I led him upstream for about a quarter of a mile. The
peelers obviously had a canine unit because after about ten minutes the dog set up a terrible
howling, which could only mean that they’d found what was left of the other half of Seamus’s
head. Hopefully the dog would pick up the rest of the dead man’s scent and lead them to the river
and then downstream. The wind was blowing off the sea so that would help a little too.

"What was that?" the soldier asked, spooked.

"That was a dog, they probably just found Seamus, come on now."

We kept going and paused while I adjusted my prosthesis.

As we got farther upstream the Parker River narrowed, but I kept us going until it was shallow
enough so we could easily cross to the other bank.

"Follow me to the other side, be sharp about it," I told him.

He nodded glumly. Seeing Seamus topped like that had certainly gotten his attention and now he
was Mister Cooperation. No more slow play, broken legs, or crying out.

I helped him up the slippery embankment and led him under a tree. It was a pretty good move to
lose our scent in the water, but it wouldn’t fool Fido for long and Jackie was right about one
thing, sooner or later they would have a chopper. I had to think fast. I sat the character on a
big root. He was hyperventilating and afeared. He had to calm down and he had to believe me.

"First thing, take a big breath," I told him.

He breathed deep and exhaled.

"Second thing. What’s your name and rank?" I asked.

"My name and rank?"

"Yeah, you have to tell me. Even if I was the enemy you’d have to tell me."

"Specialist David Ryan," he said, confused but maybe a little less frightened.

"Ok, David, listen, it’s gonna be ok. I’m going to let you go, but you gotta be cool and do
what I tell you. Ok?"

He nodded.

"Good," I said.

"He was going to kill me. He, he was going to kill you, too," he muttered, recalling the
grisly incident. He began to shiver. I couldn’t afford for him to lose it now.

"Take it easy, mate. You were never in any danger. Not for a second. Neither was I. He had a
gun but you’d need fucking kryptonite to take care of me. Now be cool and shut up a minute while
I sort this out."

I rummaged in my cargo pants pocket and took out the mobile phone that Samantha insisted I
always carry for a situation such as this. The question was whether it would work when I needed
it. The pocket was soaked and the phone was slathered in wet reeds, petals, and pollen.

"Just fucking work," I ordered it and turned it on. It lit up by force of will and I got a
dial tone. Thank God.

I rang Samantha’s number.

She picked up.

"Hello?"

"It’s me," I said.

"Mi—? Where are you? Are you on a portable phone?"

"Yes."

"Hang up now and call me from a landline."

"It’s an emergency."

"Ok, well then, um, be very careful what you say."

"I don’t have time for that shit. Seamus is dead. You’re going to have to send a team of FBI
agents to the Massachusetts National Guard base near Rowley on Route 1A. Right now. We broke in,
it went wrong, and Seamus is dead. And there’s a witness. They’re going to pick up a soldier,
Specialist David Ryan. If you want this operation to succeed you can’t allow him to talk to the
cops. The FBI are going to have to convince them this is a federal matter. We can’t trust the
cops not to blab. He’ll be waiting there for them. He’ll be prepped."

"What on earth is going on? Are you hurt?" she asked.

"I’ll tell you later. It’s a fuckup. It’s going to be your call on whether it’s a fatal fuckup
or not. If you ask me, I think we should abort the whole thing. But like the good trooper that I
am, I’m going to square it so we have all the options. Ok?"

"You have to tell me exactly what’s happened," she said, an imperative tone overcoming her
concern.

"No time. Listen to me. Write this down. Get the FBI to the National Guard Base on Route 1A,
the 101st Engineers. It’s near Rowley and the Parker River. Pick up Specialist David Ryan. You
better bloody move it too. I’ve got to go to PI and make this right. You owe me big time for
this. Big time," I said.

I turned off the phone and looked at Ryan.

"Ok, pal, now listen to me, the cops are going to be over here in a few minutes. I’m an
undercover FBI agent, I’ve infiltrated a very dangerous cell of terrorists. They are on the verge
of blowing tons of shit up. Remember Oklahoma City? Stuff like that. The lives of hundreds of
people are at stake. If you tell those cops that I shot Seamus, my cover will be blown and months
of preparation are going to go up the fucking spout and I’ll be executed and the terrorists are
going to get away. This is bandit country, the cops can’t be trusted. Only the feds. Ok?"