The Furies (19 page)

“And a good fucking evening to you, too.” He changed his voice, switching to the accent and idioms of twenty-first-century America.

“Don't move a fucking muscle, Van.” This voice belonged to FBI Special Agent Mike Larson, who stood between the man with the flashlight and the one with the shotgun. “Are you armed?”

“What the fuck do you think? Of course not.”

“Well, we're gonna search you anyway. Just stand still.”

The man with the flashlight handed it to Larson, then stepped forward and started patting Sullivan down. Both he and the man with the shotgun wore the same kind of ugly gray suit that Larson did, so they were probably FBI agents too, lower-ranking officers whom Larson had brought along for protection. The agent reached under Sullivan's bomber jacket and slapped his ribs and waist, then bent over to pat down his legs. Sullivan felt an urge to smash the cur's head, but he clenched his hands and suppressed it. As he peered into the darkness he spotted the fourth man on their team, who had short, graying hair and an anxious expression on his face. This man looked less professional than the others. He stood several feet behind Larson, deliberately staying in the background, and kept his hands in the pockets of his green windbreaker.

Once the agent completed his search, he grunted, “He's clean,” and returned to his partners. Then Agent Larson stepped forward, shining the flashlight in Sullivan's eyes. “What happened to your face, Van? Looks like you got a few scratches there.”

It took some effort, but Sullivan managed to keep smiling. Hatred of Ariel flared in his chest. “I had a little trouble with one of my bitches,” he replied. “You know how it is.”

“Really? You sure about that?” Larson gave him a skeptical look. “I heard that you and your boys were busy yesterday. There was an incident on Mackinac Island.”

Sullivan shook his head. “Never been there. That's the place with the fudge, right?”

“Yeah, it's a friendly, peaceful place. So peaceful there's only half a dozen cops on the whole island. You can imagine their surprise when a bunch of thugs in black leather jackets showed up at the White Star Ferry docks and started shooting.”

“Wow, that's fucked up. Who were they shooting at?”

Larson frowned. “Funny you should ask. The White Star Ferry has a surveillance camera on the wharf, and it took a picture of the guy. It was the drug dealer from Philadelphia who drives the Kia with the vanity plates. John fucking Rogers. The same guy we were looking for at the goddamn checkpoint on the bridge.” He moved a step closer to Sullivan. “You were playing games with me, weren't you? You wanted to get rid of Rogers, but you couldn't find him. So you decided to ask the feds for a little help. You ratted out Rogers and his meth business to get us to put pressure on him. After we set up the checkpoint, you put your own boys on Mackinac Island, because you knew Rogers wasn't stupid enough to take the bridge. You were using us to trap him.”

“Whoa, I don't know what you're—”

“I don't like games, Van. You're in a hell of a lot of trouble now. While your boys were chasing Rogers, the asshole hijacked a goddamn ferryboat and beached it on the shore of Lake Huron. The picture of the boat is gonna be on the front page of every newspaper in the fucking state today. We're talking some serious shit here, and you're buried up to your neck in it. Do you have any idea how long I could put you away for this?”

The agent stood right in front of him, trying his best to intimidate. This was a stupid tactical move on Larson's part. With one quick lunge Sullivan could put the man in a headlock. The agent with the shotgun wouldn't fire for fear of hitting his boss, and in the next instant Sullivan could grab Larson's pistol and eliminate all four of them. He'd been a Ranger for thirty years before he started his rebellion, and close-quarters combat was one of his specialties. But this wasn't the time for combat. It was time to be clever.

“So why don't you arrest me?” he asked. “Why are we talking in this fucking barn instead of the police station?” He didn't wait for Larson to answer. “It's because you don't have any evidence against me. The cops didn't catch the shooters on Mackinac Island, did they?”

Larson grimaced. “Don't worry, we'll find them.”

“No, you won't. And you won't find Rogers, either. Not without my help, at least. And I bet you still want to find him, probably more than ever. Now that he's in all the newspapers, you better fucking catch the asshole, right?”

The agent raised his eyebrows. “So you know where Rogers is?”

“Look, I'll be honest with you. I hate the fucker. Some of the John Does he killed in Brooklyn were friends of mine. And it's true, I needed some help to track him down. But I wasn't bullshitting you about his meth connections. Rogers is a major player. His supplier is one of the biggest methamphetamine labs in the country.”

Sullivan paused, enjoying the moment. He was toying with Larson, pulling his strings. The agent was already convinced that Rogers was a killer and a drug dealer, thanks to the evidence Sullivan had planted in the junkie's house and Rogers's apartment. The next step was obvious.

“So where is this lab?” Larson asked.

“You're in luck. It's near a town called Pickford, less than twenty miles from here. And Rogers is there right now.”

“And why should I believe any of this? How do I know you're not playing games with me again?”

Sullivan reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and pulled out a small digital camera. “The meth lab's in the middle of a giant, fenced-off farm. It's the perfect place to conceal the operation. A couple of days ago I posted one of my boys near the farm's gate, in a hidden spot in the woods, so he could monitor who was going in and out.” He turned on the camera and displayed an image on its screen, the only image stored on the camera's chip. “He took this photo twelve hours ago.”

Larson grabbed the camera and enlarged the image. It was a picture of seven people, five of whom seemed to be Amish men. The tallest and huskiest—Conroy Fury, Master of the Guardsmen and one of Sullivan's least favorite cousins—carried Ariel on his back. The only man without a beard was John Rogers, who stood in the middle of the group, just his head and shoulders visible.

Larson stared openmouthed at the photo. “What the fuck's going on? Are those guys Amish?”

“Yeah, their farm's on Route 129. The past few years have been tough for farming, and they needed to find another way to make some cash. So they got into the meth business. They let Rogers and bunch of other assholes build an underground lab beneath one of their barns. A really, really big lab.”

“Amish farmers making meth? Are you fucking serious?”

Sullivan shrugged. “The money's good. They don't use the drug themselves, it's only for outsiders. So in their eyes, I guess that makes it okay.”

The agent shook his head as he stared at the camera's screen. Then he looked over his shoulder and gestured at the man standing behind him, the nervous one in the green windbreaker. “Uh, Captain Dunn? Can you take a look at this?”

The man came forward and Larson handed him the camera. Sullivan noticed that the man's windbreaker had the words
WHITE STAR FERRY
printed on the chest. This was the captain of the ferryboat that Ariel and her paramour had hijacked. He studied the camera's screen for a few seconds, then pointed at the display. “That's him, all right,” he said. “That's the one who took the
Ojibway.
And that's the young lady who helped him. Except she was disguised as an
old
lady when I saw her.”

Larson said, “Okay, thanks,” and Captain Dunn retreated to the back of the barn. Then the FBI agent turned back to Sullivan. “You know anything about this woman? Is she Rogers's girlfriend?”

For once Sullivan didn't have to lie. “Yes, she is. And she's making a big mistake.”

Larson took one last look at the photo, then ejected the camera chip. “You mind if I borrow this? I think I'll pay a visit to that farm on Route 129.” He slipped the chip into his pocket and returned the camera to Sullivan. “I'll ask the longbeards why they're hanging out with a drug dealer from Philly. If they're smart, they'll give him up. If not, we'll just have to sit tight and watch them.”

Sullivan frowned. Larson's strategy didn't sound promising. “You sure that's the best way to do it? You might scare him off.”

The agent seemed amused. He put his hands on his hips. “You got a better idea, Van?”

“Yeah, I do. Send in a SWAT team and raid the farm. It would be the biggest drug bust in the fucking history of the state.”

Larson laughed. “I wish it were that simple. But unfortunately we need a search warrant. And we don't have enough evidence to convince a judge to give us one.”

“What if I could get the evidence for you?”

A hungry look flickered in Larson's eyes. The agent was ambitious. That was his weak point. He was willing to disregard his doubts because he wanted Sullivan to be right. “And how would you do that?”

“Just give me a few hours. I'll figure something out.”

Larson spread his arms wide, like a priest offering a blessing. “Hey, I won't stop you. We both want the same thing, right?”

Sullivan nodded, although he couldn't imagine anything further from the truth. The FBI agent wanted a promotion. He wanted the governor of Michigan to pin a medal to his chest for arresting the man who'd hijacked the
Ojibway
. What Sullivan wanted, on the other hand, was much grander. He was going to change the world, turn it upside down. And the key to achieving his goal was a chemical formula that had been translated into ancient runes and inscribed in the pages of Ariel's Treasure. For a few minutes yesterday he'd held the formula in his hands, only to see it snatched away by his bitch of a sister. But he would get it back soon. The Elders of Haven would gladly surrender it to him once they realized what the alternative was.

He smiled once more at Larson. Even though they wanted different things, they could still work together. “Nice doing business with you.” Sullivan turned to leave the barn. “I'll be in touch.”

THIRTEEN

John's room was a luxurious prison cell. He lay on a queen-size feather bed with silk sheets and goose-down pillows. The walls were decorated with paintings in magnificent gilt frames, the kind you usually see only in art museums. Next to the bed were a mahogany night table and a gorgeous antique grandfather clock. But the room had no windows and the door was locked.

According to the clock, it was 10:00
A.M.
When John awoke an hour ago he'd found a breakfast tray on the night table—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, all of it delicious—but no one had come to his room since then to pick up the dirty dishes. As he lay in bed he carefully surveyed the walls and paintings, looking for a hidden surveillance camera. His room was in the same pyramidal building as the Elders' council chambers, and he wondered if Elizabeth Fury was watching him right now, monitoring the outsider who'd dared to come to Haven.

Finally, he heard a knock on the door. “Can I come in?” It was Ariel's voice.

John hesitated before answering. He was still angry at her for turning him in. But she'd also won him a reprieve. She'd convinced the Elders not to execute him, at least not right away. He supposed he ought to thank her. “I gotta warn you, I'm naked,” he said. “Someone stole my clothes while I was sleeping.”

“We washed them,” she replied from the other side of the door. “Now I'm bringing them back. Just get under the covers.”

He tossed a satiny blanket over himself as Ariel unlocked the door and opened it. To his surprise, she was on her feet. She wasn't walking normally yet—she hobbled on a pair of crutches, wincing as she entered the room—but she wasn't helpless, either. “Holy shit,” he marveled. “Your bones are healed already?”

“Not quite.” With a grunt and a final stride she reached his bed. She wore jeans and sneakers and a plain white blouse. “But I'm making progress. Fury women heal quickly, that's part of our genetic inheritance. I've also taken more of our herbal medicines, and you've seen what they can do. How are
you
feeling?”

John massaged his ribs under the blanket. Conroy's men had given him another dose of the moldy water last night before he went to bed, and now his chest felt much better. When he touched his nose, there was almost no pain at all. “You're right, you got some good medicine here. The food ain't bad, either.”

Nodding, Ariel dropped a brown-paper bag on his bed. “Here are your clothes. I'll turn around while you get dressed.”

Technically, there was no need for her to turn away. She'd already seen him naked. But now the emotional distance between them was so great, it was like looking at a stranger. John stared at her back as he opened the bag and found his pants and underwear. All he felt was bitterness. “Wow, laundry service too. This place has everything. It'd be perfect if it weren't for the locked doors.”

“The Elders insisted on that.” Her voice was cool and even. “You'll have to earn their trust.”

“And what about you? Do
you
trust me?”

“I know you're not stupid. You're smart enough to realize you can't escape Haven. You don't know the codes for the exits.”

He put on his underwear, then stepped into his pants. “But that's not the same thing as trust, is it?”

Her back stiffened. She started to turn around, but then stopped herself. “I understand. You're upset that you didn't have a choice in this matter. And I'm upset, too. I didn't want this to happen.”

“Right, right. But you were bound by your oath.” He zipped up his pants and reached for his shirt. “That was more important.”