Cutting Edge

9

It was nine that evening when Lund tracked down PO3 William Simmons’ commander. Lieutenant Commander Reggie Walsh was nursing a beer at the Golden Anchor, the on-base sports bar. The bad news about the accident on Mount Barometer had already reached him by way of the wives’ network — in all branches of the service, there was no more lightning-paced intelligence organization.

“I’m sorry,” said Lund from the stool next to him. She already had a dark beer in hand thanks to a bartender with a quick wrist and an infallible memory.

“Me too, he was a good kid,” said Walsh. “Never gave me a lick of trouble.”

“How long has he been here in Kodiak?”

“A little over a year. Will was an aviation maintenance technician — worked mostly in the spares and expendables section, issuing and ordering parts.”

Lund inquired about the other young man who was involved, Simmons’ climbing partner, and Walsh had nothing bad to say about him. “They were just a couple of kids, indestructible and looking forward to life.” He explained that both young men seemed adventurous, constantly hiking and borrowing kayaks, and that Simmons had inquired about attending rescue swimmer training.

“I was going to recommend him too. He was friends with a couple of the ASTs on station, guys who’d been through the program. But now…” He took a long draw on his beer. “At least I won’t have to make the notification — had to do that once, and it’s lousy duty. Will wasn’t married, and his family hails from Georgia. I’ll make some phone calls tonight, find out who’s going to knock on the door. They need to have everything straight going in.”

Lund spun her mug by its handle. “So tell me something — were you around a few weeks back when we lost that helo?”

The lieutenant commander stiffened. “That investigation is hot and heavy right now, so I can’t say much about it. It was one of our birds, and the place has been crawling with investigators. I can tell you they looked at our maintenance records long and hard last week, but found no evidence of mechanical issues. That crew was trying to pull a guy out of a raft in twenty-foot seas with wind gusts over eighty knots. I guess that’s why the flyers get paid the big bucks.” He looked at her warily. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not involved in the safety investigation. I was just wondering about the young man they brought back — the AST who almost survived. I’d heard he was flown out to Anchorage on one of our C-130s, but then today somebody told me he was airlifted out on a civilian Lear.”

Walsh seemed to stand down. “I wasn’t there, but one of my mechanics was doing an inspection that night. She told me a small jet came to pick him up.”

“Isn’t that strange?” she asked. “I mean, doesn’t the Coast Guard usually handle their own med-evacs?”

“Usually, yeah. But it’s not my end of the operation.”

Out of nowhere, a third voice entered the conversation. “You knew him, didn’t you, Shannon?”

Lund looked up and saw the bartender addressing her. She hadn’t been to the Golden Anchor in months, but the guy remembered her beer and her name — which put him two up on her. He was stout, in his mid-forties, obviously nosy and with a bear-trap memory. He’d probably make a good detective, she thought.

“You knew DeBolt,” he pressed. “I remember you being here with him once or twice.”

“Once,” she said. “It’s a small base.”

It had been six months ago, a strictly professional encounter in which Lund had tracked DeBolt here, finding him in the middle of a unit hail-and-farewell party. She’d needed to interview him regarding a rescue in which a trawler captain had been plucked from a rocky beach — even four hours after his boat had sunk, the man was stone drunk, so much so that he’d fallen out of the helo when they arrived back at Kodiak. Someone had decided to build criminal charges against the captain, although it hadn’t been Lund’s section. After filing her report, she’d never tracked the disposition of the case. But she definitely remembered DeBolt, with his sharp blue eyes and cool confidence. He was one of the elite: well trained, exceptionally fit, and, she was sure, very intelligent. His death was the kind of thing that frightened people in the service, in the sense that if it had happened to him, it could happen to anyone.

Lund tipped back the last of her beer, and regarded the two men in turn. “So tell me, do either of you gentlemen know where Simmons lived?”

Not surprisingly, it was the barman who said, “Apartment house just outside the gate. A lot of the enlisted guys end up there. Do you need to take a look at his place?”

“I probably should.”

“I can get you in.”

Lund raised an eyebrow. She looked at the cash register receipt on the bar in front of her and saw her server’s name printed near the top: Tom.

“It’s a small town,” said Tom the bartender. “My wife keeps the books for the guy who owns the building, does some sales work on the weekends. She has keys for all the units. I’ll tell her you’ll be by in the morning.”

“Right,” she said. “A real small town.”

DeBolt opened his eyes to light that was blinding. He squinted severely, trying to make sense of things. An open doorway, beyond that swathes of blue sky and trees. Remnants of last night came hurtling back. The storm, the killers, fighting for his life in the surf. He remembered Joan Chandler sprawled motionless on the ground. In the air and on the sea, DeBolt had faced more than his share of trials, and he took pride in his ability to stay calm under pressure. But after last night — jumping into the Arctic Ocean from a helicopter seemed like child’s play.

He struggled up to a sitting position, and the couch creaked beneath him. DeBolt felt a host of new pains. Looking at his bare feet, he saw cuts and bruises. A new gash on the outside of his calf was very possibly a gunshot wound — a personal first. His head ached in the vicinity of new scrapes and contusions, which was at least different from the generalized pain he’d been battling for weeks. The soreness in his shoulder was more familiar, an aggravation of the injury from the crash. After allowing a few moments to get his bearings, DeBolt looked around the room, seeing it for the first time. It was similar to the cottage where he’d spent the last month, only more dated and worn. He guessed the place hadn’t been lived in since summer. Maybe the summer before.

He stood and felt the grit of sand under his feet. DeBolt searched out the bathroom. He avoided the mirror at the washbasin, and turned on the tap. The faucet spit a stream of brown muck, but eventually ran clear — cold only. He cupped his hands under the faucet, girded himself, and plunged his face into the icy water.

DeBolt braved a quick shower, the cold reminding him of the Atlantic. In a cabinet he found shaving supplies and even a new toothbrush in its packaging. He cleaned his wounds, found bandages for a few, and then began foraging through the largest bedroom. At least one of the cabin’s owners was male, and roughly his size. A pair of boat shoes were two sizes too small and bit into his heels, but they were better than nothing at all. In a bedside table he found a twenty-dollar bill, and scrounged a few more dollars in loose change from a kitchen drawer. DeBolt kept a mental log of everything he took, in vague hope that he might someday repay the owner.

His stomach reminded him that he was due a meal, but the kitchen had been cleaned out save for a box of sugar packets and an old can of asparagus. As he drew a glass of water from the tap, DeBolt decided there were issues far more critical than breakfast.

Last night he had witnessed a murder, the only person he knew in Maine having been killed by a squad of armed men. He didn’t know who they were, but he recognized a military operation when he saw one. He’d worked regularly with components of the DOD and DEA on missions involving smuggling and drug interdiction, and DeBolt himself had been trained by the Coast Guard on small-unit boarding and assault tactics. Yet there was one glaring disconnect with what he’d witnessed last night: those men had killed without hesitation. There had been no warnings to their targets to stop or surrender. No rules of engagement or abiding of laws. They had only wanted him and Chandler dead. That wasn’t how legitimate military units operated.

His previous conclusion was more persistent than ever. They had come for him. Joan Chandler’s last words came back in a particularly haunting echo. The surgery you had … it wasn’t only to make you well. It was to make you different.

Different.

He remembered how he’d been saved last night, when he’d lost sight of land and was being swept seaward. The odd vision that had guided him to shore, a tiny arrow pointing west. Any connection seemed inconceivable, and DeBolt shook the idea away.

Of all the tragedies to find him in recent weeks, last night was singular in its cruelty. The crime had taken place only hours ago, and it occurred to him, given the remoteness of Chandler’s cabin, that it might not yet have been discovered. A pang of doubt set in. Could Joan Chandler possibly have survived? He recalled the agonizing scene, watching her collapse and fall still. Even so, no matter how slight the chance, DeBolt knew he would second-guess himself for the rest of his life if he didn’t put in a call for help. He searched the cottage. No phone, no radio, no computer. It left only one option.

He hurried outside into a cold wind, pulled the collar up on a jacket that wasn’t his, and set out to find a road.

Joan Chandler’s leveled cottage was discovered at 9:24 that morning. A reserve deputy, called into action under the auspices of the Washington County Emergency Preparedness Plan, drove his truck to within a hundred yards of the cabin before breaking clear of the trees and seeing the problem.

He instantly realized that the storm, severe as it had been, could in no way be responsible for the catastrophe in front of him. The cabin, which the deputy had seen often from the sea while fishing in nearby coves, was essentially gone. The only markers of where it had been were a charred slab of concrete, one section of wall, and a few pipes and conduit sleeves that rose up like the stumps of cut saplings. Even now, hours after the initial report of an explosion, a few wisps of smoke remained, and bits of debris dressed the nearby pines, turning them into so many postapocalyptic Christmas trees.

The deputy knew better than to get any closer. He suspected — correctly it would soon be proven — that he was looking at the aftermath of a gas explosion. There could be no survivors, and he wondered ruefully if the nurse, whom he’d once met but whose name escaped him, had been home last night. He put in a radio call to dispatch, requesting both sheriff’s department backup and a fire department response. As an afterthought, he mentioned to the duty officer that there was no particular hurry.