twenty-five

Karen sat on the couch, Duncan’s arm around her, his other hand holding his .380 Bersa. She cried and told him what had happened, cried some more, and apologized over and over again for letting them break in, for not using the dish towel warning system, and Duncan murmured and said “it’s all right, it’s all right,” all the while wishing his lovely and deadly bride had waited a couple of minutes before wasting that Iron Steeds biker. A few more minutes and Duncan would have found out if there was a backup crew out there, or just how much Francis Ouellette knew about the upcoming shipment, and other bits of useful information.

But damn it, no information was going to come from the rapidly cooling corpse over there. Which was a pity.

Karen said, “Duncan?”

He kissed the side of her head. “Yes, love. Talk to me.”

“You’re not mad that I shot him, are you? I knew you were trying to ask him questions … but he poked his rifle in my chest. He terrified me. He slapped me. I had to … had to shoot him.”

Duncan kissed her again, harder. It didn’t matter any more, what he or hadn’t learned.

“You did all right, hon. You did just fine.”

Zach approached the house and reached into Duncan’s truck, switched off the ignition. No use wasting gas or giving an idling engine wear and tear. He put his .32 Browning back into his holster and slowly approached the front door, hands held out in front of him.

“Duncan!” he called out. “It’s me, Zach! I’m coming in. Okay? I’m coming in!”

In his training he had heard so many disastrous tales of friendly fire—especially that poor son-of-a-bitch football star Tillman, giving up millions of dollars to get zapped in the ’stan by his own troops—and he didn’t want to add to that depressing list. He stood still at the door, called out again, “Duncan! It’s Zach! I’m coming in!”

From inside the house, Duncan yelled back, “Got you, Zach! Come on in!”

He slowly opened the door, kept hands out and open, and went through the kitchen and into the living room. The second gunman was on his back on the living room floor, apparently dead, for his chest wasn’t moving, and neither was anything else. A frightened Karen Crowley was sitting next to her angry husband.

Duncan got up. “How did it go?”

Zach said, “He’s down. About halfway up that side hill, going to the tree line. I didn’t see anybody else out there.”

“We heard the gunfire. You okay?”

“Bit winded but that’s to be expected. Used to swimming more than running. My feet are cold and wet, which isn’t a problem. That, I’m used to. Plus I got some scratches, coming through your patio door.”

Duncan said, “Zach … Karen and I, we owe you more than you know. Look, we’ll talk about all of this later, but there’s lot to be done. Can you keep view of the rear deck? I’ve got a call to make.”

Zach popped the magazine out of his pistol, inserted a fresh one he kept in the side holster, worked the action. “You can count on it.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Karen spoke up, eyes wide with amazement. “Zach Morrow … I thought that was you. What in the hell are you doing here?”

He smiled at her. “Doing good, it appears.”

Duncan went to the kitchen, locked the door leading outside, took a breath, grabbed his cellphone. He dialed a number from memory and it rang and rang and rang. He looked to his wife on the couch and to Zach, standing nearby, pistol in hand. A close-run darn thing. And to think he and his brother were suspicious of Zach!

The phone was finally answered. “Cameron here.”

Duncan said, “You know who this is. We’ve had a fire.”

Cameron quickly said, “Contained?”

“At the moment. I need back-up soonest, including a clean-up crew. I’m also going to need you to get Amy and Lewis out of school, get them someplace safe. I’ll have Karen call the principal’s office, get it all straightened out. Also, get some support staff to get fixings for a barbecue. It’s gonna be a long night.”

“Got it,” Cameron said. “On my way.”

The tightness in Duncan’s chest eased some when Cameron hung up. Things were in motion. He went back out to the living room, looked to the dead guy on the floor. He thought about draping a sheet or a blanket over the body, but the hell with that. Any sheet or blanket would have to be thrown away, and he wasn’t going to waste Crowley belongings on someone who had broken in, had threatened and assaulted his wife.

To Karen he said, “Cameron and the boys will be here soonest. Zach and I have got things under control. What can we do for you?”

She rubbed her cheek where she had been slapped. “I need to make sure Lewis and Amy are protected.”

“Done,” Duncan said. “Cameron is on his way to the school now, he’ll find a safe place to put them up for a while. If you can call the principal, Mr. What’s-his-name—”

“Mr. What’s-his-name is Mr. Horatio Spenser, if you ever decide to go to a school meeting, Duncan Crowley,” she said, her voice sharp.

“Duly noted,” Duncan said, secretly pleased at seeing her displeasure. That was the Karen he knew and loved, not the weepy, scared woman who had been here earlier. “What else can we do for you?”

She got off the couch, headed down the hallway to the bedrooms. “I intend to call the school from the bedroom, strip, take a shower for about a week, and then get dressed. I’ll depend on you strong brave men to keep me safe.”

He went after her, gently took her arm, kissed her and kissed her. “You kept yourself safe. That was a wonderful accomplishment. Kept your cool and did fine.”

She said, “I feel pretty good now, but I think I deserve a collapse later.”

“You will. Now go get your clothes off, take a shower, and stay away from any windows.”

That got him another kiss as she walked away.

Zach kept watch over the rear deck and yard while Duncan watched the front of the house, pacing around like a wounded lion, eager to get back into the hunt. Zach was stunned at how quickly things started to happen. Within a few minutes there was the roar of motorcycles as two bikers rolled into the driveway and got off. They weren’t wearing colors—both had jeans but one wore the jacket of a local heating and cooling repair company, while the other had on a pharmacist’s smock—but they came in as Duncan took control.

“Barry, you and Fred go outside, take some cover, but keep view of the yard,” Duncan said. “Two shooters are down; one here and one outside. I don’t know if there are any others out there.”

Zach was impressed with their response. They didn’t ask any questions, they didn’t stare at the body on the floor or the shot-out sliding glass door. Both men brought semiautomatic pistols out from side holsters and went back outside as a dark green Honda Pilot suddenly braked to a stop outside on the street.

Cameron Crowley barreled through the front door, carrying an H&K MP5 submachine gun under his long tan farmer’s jacket. He ignored Zach and went straight to his brother.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Karen?”

“She’s shook up, got manhandled some, but she’s in the shower now. She was a warrior queen, Cam, did well.”

Cameron relaxed, slung the H&K over his shoulder. He stared at Zach. “I know you,” he said.

Zach stepped forward, held out his hand. “Zach Morrow. Fellow graduate of Turner Regional High School.”

The handshake was firm and to the point. “Glad to see you, bud. Also glad to see you were here.”

Duncan said, “You and me both, Cam. You and me both. Zach was here with me, stayed outside when I came inside. He could have run away or called the cops, but he put his ass on the line. Shot his way through the rear sliding glass door like Bruce Willis on steroids. Got this guy on the ground, nailed the second shooter outside, even though he was packing a semiautomatic rifle. Look, what we’re going to need is—”

Cameron held up a hand. “Bro, what you’re going to do now is nothing. I got it under control. Your kids are out of school, safe. They’re up at Paul Gagnon’s place, and you know him, even the Staties are afraid to mess with him even though he’s in a wheelchair. The kids will be fine.”

Zach saw Duncan release a breath of air. His older brother kept talking. “You should check on Karen, get a change of clothes, a big stiff drink. But nothing else. Take some time, both of you come out into the living room and then we’ll figure things out. But go.”

Duncan hesitated, grinned. “All right. I don’t usually like taking orders from my big brother, but this time, I’ll make an exception.”

Down the hallway, Duncan knocked on the door to the bathroom. The shower inside was running. “Karen?” he called through the door. “It’s Duncan. I’m opening the door.”

He stepped into the warm steaminess of the bathroom. To the left was the combination tub and shower, in front of him was a his and her vanity, the toilet off to the right. On the very edge of the vanity, closest to the shower, was his Ruger .357 revolver, the one he kept between the mattress and box spring. A shadow was moving behind the curtain, and Karen stuck her head out. Her red hair was plastered against her head, and her eyes were swollen. He was certain she had been bawling in the shower.

He said, “Amy and Lewis are safe. They’re with Paul Gagnon for the duration. Cameron and his boys have shown up. Everything’s going to be taken care of.”

She nodded, bit her lip. “Could use some help in here, washing my back.”

Duncan paused. What he really wanted to do was to get back to the living room, start overseeing the clean-up and talk more to Cameron, again give his thanks to Zach. That’s what he wanted to do, what should be done, but one look at Karen’s troubled face convinced him otherwise. He stripped off his own clothes, conscious they were soaked through from his sweat, and Karen stepped back as he got into the shower.

Karen allowed him a moment under the flowing water, and he wet his head and chest and back, and stepped back. He soaped up his hands and a washcloth and started working on Karen’s sleek back. She moaned in pleasure and leaned forward, holding herself up by putting her hands against the near wall.

He rubbed and washed, rubbed and washed, and she said, “Do my hair?”

“Sure.”

He rinsed his hands and then put a glop or two of a combination shampoo/conditioner, and worked that into her thick, wet mane. She sighed again and the water splashed around and he stepped closer, as Karen sighed once more.

Duncan said, “I’m sorry I failed you, sweetie. Deeply sorry.”

She shook her head against his washing hands. “No apologies necessary. If anything, I should apologize to you. I was too trusting when I opened the door. I should have been more suspicious, especially since you said ‘alas Babylon’ last night. I didn’t even bother to check the surveillance television. If I did, I might have seen they were carrying weapons. They got the drop on me, they got the drop on you. I’m so sorry.”

He recalled the shame, the embarrassment, the sheer humiliation of standing in his own living room, unarmed, hands up, pants around his ankles, as his wife was mauled and manhandled.

“That’s just an excuse,” he finally said. “I should have gotten you three out of the house earlier. I should have insisted you carry a piece at all times, instead of relying on one being within reach. If it wasn’t for Zach …”

She turned and put her forearms across his shoulders, face to face. Water ran down in rivulets across her full, freckled breasts, the pink nipples stiff and erect. She kissed him. “Zach Morrow … why in the world is he here?”

He put his hands on her slim hips. Even with two kids, she was in great shape. A bit heavier than her wedding day, but it all went to making her curvier and rounder, like a ripe sweet peach. “He was in the Coast Guard, got kicked out for disobeying orders, something like that. Was living in Purmort until the other day, when his double-wide burned to the ground. Came back to Turner to see what’s what. Looking for a job.”

She nuzzled his throat. “You’re going to help him, aren’t you.”

“You know it.”

She raised up her head, let the hot water race through her hair and down her face. She lowered her head and said, “This can’t happen again.”

“I know.”

“That shipment … when’s it coming in?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“If it goes well?”

“Then I’m done, out, free. No more living on the edge, or over the edge, for you, me, and the kids. Especially the kids.”

That earned him another kiss. “Good. Make it happen. And honey?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Cameron, as soon as you can.”

“I’m meaning to but—”

She brought a hand to the back of his head, cupped it, her fingers tracing patterns through his wet hair. “He deserves to know. See how quickly he rode to the rescue when you made that call? That’s your older brother. Do the right thing, Duncan. Tell him.”

He touched her nose with his finger. “All right, wench. I’ll tell him.”

“Good,” she said, stepping closer, her sweet curvy breasts pushing into his chest. “Now, this is going to sound kinky and strange, love bug, but after all that happened … the violence, the shooting, the rescue … your wench is so goddamn horny.”

Duncan felt himself stir at her words. He kissed her deeply, tasting her, devouring her, and broke away. “For real?”

She nodded, reached down, fondled him. “Christ, yes.”

“We’ll have to be quiet.”

“So what,” she said, pressing into him again. “Besides, I love your tightie whities.”

Zach sat on a stool inside the kitchen, looked over the granite counter, watched and listened as Cameron and the members of the Washington County Motorcycle Club swung into action. Once the perimeter was secured, a pickup truck with a cab on its rear backed its way on the front lawn. A rubberized body bag was brought into the living room—Zach wondered what kind of motorcycle club had ready access to body bags—and the younger of the two shooters was bagged up and brought out. He was shortly joined by his older companion, and the pickup truck drove off.

Cameron said, “Couple of our guys went up the hill where the second shooter was running to, found a van with Quebec plates parked in the cemetery up there. That’s being taken to a garage, get examined. See if we can find something out.”

By then other members showed up, and a couple of guys worked to replace the shot-out sliding glass window, while other guys worked to steam-clean the carpeting. Some women arrived as well, bringing the essentials for a barbecue. Cameron just kept an eye on everything, pointing things out, commenting, encouraging, as his folks did their job. Cameron eventually came over and sat down on a stool across from him.

“Mind telling me how this went down?” Cameron asked.

Zach said, “I met up with your brother this morning. We were driving around, talking, and he brought me up to the gunshop he owns up on Gilman Road, with the butchering shop next door. He wanted to show me around, and then his cellphone rang. It was Karen. Said her car wouldn’t start, could he come pick her up. We both ended up here.”

“Unh-hunh,” Cameron said. “Then what?”

“Pulled into the driveway, Duncan kept the truck running, said he’d be back in a minute or two. I waited and waited, and nobody came back. I went to check in on him and before I strolled through the front door, saw Duncan with his hands up, saw Karen on the couch, and a guy standing between them, holding an assault rifle.”

Cameron said, “Good planning, not rushing through the front door.”

“Couldn’t see how I could have gotten away with it. Plus, there was a second guy with a rifle, not in view. He could have sprayed me by the time I got to the kitchen. So I rolled out to the backyard, got up on the deck, and saw the second gunman. Things got complicated as I was running through the options, and then the second guy came over and slapped Karen.”

“That’s when you stopped thinking, hunh?”

Zach nodded. “Fired a couple of times, nailed him and got the glass door shattered, good combination, got into the living room. Lucky I just got a couple of scrapes. Duncan dropped, got Karen off the couch, the bigger of the two tried to fire but either his SKS jammed or he had on it safe. He was working to clear it when your brother whacked him on the back of his head. He broke free, got out the front door. I followed, gunfight ensued, and that was that.”

“Good shooting on your part,” Cameron said.

“Mind telling me who these guys were?”

“Bikers from a club just outside of Montreal. Called the Iron Steeds. They control a lot of the crystal meth, weed, heroin, and prostitute traffic in Quebec.”

“They’re far from home,” Zach said.

Cameron ignored the observation and said, “One of my crew, he said that the guy up on the hill had three entry wounds in his back. So you shot him in the back?”

Zach said, “If he had been facing the front, I would’ve shot him in the front. If he had been sideways, I would have shot him sideways. Figured it made no matter which way he was facing.”

“Damn straight,” Cameron said.

Duncan left the bathroom to his wife, humming a tune, towel wrapped around her, drying her hair and getting her make-up ready. There was just one moment, before he left, when she pointed to her clothes on the bathroom floor and said, “No offense, handsome, but those clothes are to be burned. I won’t wear them again.”

“Got it,” Duncan said, and he went down the hallway, the kitchen and living room nearly filled with people. He was greeted like a dad coming home after a dangerous stay at the local hospital, and men slapped him on the back and shook his hand, while the women gave him hugs and kisses. A fan was blowing air over a wet spot in the rug where it had been cleaned, and two women were busy washing the new sliding glass door for the rear deck. In the kitchen, one of the younger male members of the Washington County Motorcycle Club was spackling a hole in the wall from one of the bullets that had flown through this room not more than an hour ago.

He took it all in, feeling warm satisfaction that he was alive, with a woman and children who loved him and depended on him, and that he had friends and supporters throughout the county who would come here in nearly an instant to help. Outside on the deck, some women were working around the smoking barbecue grill, and coolers had been set up. From a portable boom box, Garth Brooks was singing about friends in low places. A good cover, for if anyone were curious as to the sudden appearance of motorcycles and trucks at the Crowley residence, the barbecue would answer any questions.

He grabbed a Molson Golden Ale, waved at Zach, and cornered his brother. Cameron had a cheery look on him, which was understandable: he had come through in a big way to make it all right.

“Cam, a moment?” Duncan asked.

“You got it, bro.”

They went out to the deck and went to the far corner, both of them leaning across the railing, looking out to the yard and the descending sun. With nothing said or noted, still, everyone else on the deck clustered on the other side, to give the two brothers space and time to talk.

Duncan took a long, cold swallow of the Molson. It tasted great. He said, “What do you got?”

“We got two guys from the Iron Steeds, armed with Chinese-made SKS assault rifles,” Cameron said. “One dead in your living room, with two apparent .32-caliber gunshot wounds to his right shoulder, and what looks to be a .45 through the center of his chest. Zach was using a .32 Browning … the .45?”

“Karen.”

“Well, shit, good on her.”

“Keep that to yourself for now,” Duncan said. “Don’t think she’s in the mood to talk about it. Go on.”

“Yeah. Second shooter found up on the slope of the hill over there. Nice tight grouping of .32 shots to his back. That Zach … never knew he was that talented back in high school, except, of course, that time he—”

“I know, I know, the time he whipped my ass in phys ed. Got it.”

Cameron laughed. “I love reminding you of that. So yeah, nice grouping in the back. Think of that—from what you told me, he ran out with no shoes, going after a guy carrying semiautomatic rifle, only using a pistol. Usually the guy with the bigger gun wins in a fight like this.”

“No, not really,” Duncan said. “Usually the guy with the bigger balls wins … and Zach had brass ones.”

“Thinking about hiring him?”

“Oh yes, without a doubt. I mean, sure, we both had concerns, but I can’t see somebody doing undercover work for the cops gunning down two Quebec bikers and then hanging around the house, staying for a barbecue and drinks. Cam, he’s a guy we can use.”

“You say so,” Cameron said. “So to go on … I had a few guys doing a search farther up the hill, went through the Nute family cemetery. Dell Turner found a GMC van with Quebec license plates backed in, keys in the ignition. Searched it, found a dead BlackBerry, bunch of trash from McDonald’s and such, and a nice little hidey hole in the back where we’re sure they smuggled the Chink rifles in. We powered up the BlackBerry but it’s locked out with a code.”

The bottle was sweating moisture in Duncan’s hands. “That Francois Ouellette sure moves fast. You guessed it right.”

“Not something to be happy about. When they had you and Karen in the house, what were they after?”

“What do you think? The shipment coming through their territory to our territory. In two day’s time, which I just found out. They wanted the details.”

“Gee, imagine that,” Cameron said, sarcasm in his voice, “somebody wanting details.”

Duncan sourly recalled what Karen said, and something made him hesitate. Later, he promised himself, later.

His brother added, “So here’s what I’m thinking. We got two days before we have to stand ready for the deal you set up. To get up to Canada and back would take a half day, at most, if we go in quick and get lucky.”

Duncan said, “What are you talking about, Cam?”

He turned to his younger brother, said in amazement, “I’m talking about going up to Montreal and ringing Francois Ouellette’s bell, that’s what. The fucker went right after your family. We should head up north, go to that tittie bar he has that serves as a clubhouse, and blast it to the North Pole, put his head on a pike, and come back home in time to catch the Red Sox game.”

Duncan rubbed at the beer bottle’s label. “Your words are warming me right up, Cam, but no.”

“No?” Cameron asked, stunned. “No? Couple of days ago you went Dark Ages on two guys who made a threat or two against your family. Today two guys come in, molest your wife, threaten you, make threats against your kids … and you’re going to leave it be?”

Duncan said, “Need to stay focused, Cam. The shipment. Can’t afford to let that slip up. I hope you understand.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Cameron said, turning away, and that was it.

Duncan reached over, grabbed his brother’s elbow. “Okay. Details. You want details?”

Cameron seemed to struggle between pride and wanting to know what was going on, but the struggle didn’t last long. “Yeah, I want the details. This shipment. What’s in it? How much are you getting paid? What makes it so goddamn important?”

Duncan said carefully, “I don’t know what’s coming in. I’m not getting paid a cent. But you and me, we’ve been promised a million dollars.”

Cameron seemed taken aback. “A million … bro, what the hell’s coming across?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. All I know is that it’s in a half-sized shipping container, originally from the St. Lawrence Seaway. It has to come across with total secrecy and security.”

Cameron repeated. “One million dollars … can’t you guess what’s in it?”

Duncan said, “Don’t want to.”

In the yard there was some laughter, shouts. The party seemed to be really kicking in. “Okay,” Cameron said. “You don’t know what’s in it. But who’s behind it? Who set it up?”

Duncan sighed. “I’ll tell you, but the decision is done. All right? Not in the mood for debate, discussion, dissent, or any other words starting with the letter ‘d.’”

“All right, fair enough. Who came to you, and when?”

Duncan said, “Remember a few months ago, when we were up at Lake Palmer? Looking at those expensive fishing and hunting camps for those Europeans and Middle Eastern characters, Mexican millionaires, even a couple of ex-congressmen? The ones that were still a ways from being completed?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Okay. You had to go to the bathroom or something, and one of the Texan guys who owned a chunk of the development chatted me up. Talked about the history of smuggling from Canada to New Hampshire, back during Prohibition. Wanted to know if stuff still got smuggled across the border … and by the time you came back from the bathroom, we had struck a deal.”

Cameron said slowly, “Some Texan you don’t know is paying you one million dollars to smuggle a shipping container across the border, into the States?”

“Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I didn’t want you raising a fuss about this deal. I know it’s not our usual business but man, the money … we could do a lot with that money, Cam.”

“Anything could be in there, bro. Terrorists. WMDs or something like that. Biowarfare. Weapons. Drugs. Guns. Bombs. Shit, Duncan, what kind of deal is this?”

He finished his Molson. “A one-million-dollar deal, that’s what. Something we could use to help out our family, help out a lot of other families out there that are being ignored and forgotten.”

“Duncan …”

“Sorry,” he said. “That’s all for tonight.”