“I usually don’t let anybody mess with me when I’m hooking up the ladies,” a familiar voice called from somewhere behind them, “but I just couldn’t get over my shock at seeing my buddy, little Jane Maddock again.”
Dane paused and closed his eyes. It couldn’t be. He stole a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, no way.”
“You know him?” Bones asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. We were at Annapolis together.”
Bones’ eyebrows rose. “Oh ho, an Academy brat.”
“Pretty much. Upperclassman by the name of Paccone. Marc Paccone.”
“Does he like his martinis shaken instead of stirred?”
Dane shook his head. “He was a punk. Big and dumb. Loved to harass the underclassmen.”
Bones nodded.
“Hey Maddock, I’m talking to you.” The voice drew closer.
“He turned out to be a huge bully and a sadist, freaking out a lot of Midshipmen. Word was, he had a connection with a senator, an uncle or something, and he used that to keep people from reporting him.”
“So he was a bully and a coward.”
“Big time. Last I heard, he was assigned to Charlestown.”
Bones blinked.
“Charlestown, as in right around the corner? On board the USS Constitution?”
“Yep.”
“You would think a guy like that wouldn’t get such an honor. I guess the senator hooked him up.”
Dane stiffened as Paccone stepped up to the bar, ignoring Bones as if he were a cigar store Indian.
“You aren’t going to say hello to your old friend, Maddock?”
“I always speak to old friends. Problem is, I don’t see any in here.” Dane turned and met the man’s eye. He forced himself not to wince at Paccone’s toxic breath. It smelled as if the bartender had mixed him a lethal combination of motor oil and Jose Cuervo.
“Come on. You steal my action and don’t even say hello when we haven’t seen each other in so long.” Paccone grinned, the light gleaming off the damp sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Not long enough, Paccone.”
Paccone’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s that supposed to mean? We were best buds.”
“In your soggiest dreams, maybe,” Dane countered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bones cover a laugh by coughing into his clenched fist.
Paccone’s jaw worked and Dane could almost see the gears in Paccone’s mind turning at three-quarter speed. After a few seconds Paccone tensed up and clenched his fists. “Aw, are you still mad that I ragged on you a little? If it bothered you so much, why didn’t you ever stand up to me, Jane?”
“How about,” Bones interrupted, “you go sober up and get a freakin clue, dude? We’re trying to enjoy our drinks, here.”
Paccone paused and turned his attention to Bones, his eyes wide as if he had just discovered the big man’s presence.
“And who the hell are you, peckerwood?”
“Dude, we’ve got to work on your slang. Peckerwood is for rednecks and white trash. You know, people like you.”
“Whatever. Why don’t you keep your big nose out of my business? I think Jane Maddock has a problem with me, but he’s not man enough to do anything about it.”
“Hey,” the bartender called, “we’re not going to have any brawling in here, you got that?”
“Definitely not,” Dane said. “We were just about to step outside.” He’d had enough of Paccone, and it was high time he did something about the years of resentment that festered inside him. He tossed a ten on the bar and motioned for Paccone to lead the way.
“Ladies first.” Paccone made a mocking bow and gestured toward the door.
Dane smiled and led the way out onto the street without another word. They melded into the shadows of one of the side streets, well out of sight of any passers-by.
“Tell your friend here not to jump in.” Paccone rolled up his sleeves and scowled at Bones.
“He won’t.” Dane knew he should be worried about someone calling the cops, or Paccone using his senator connection to screw up Dane’s chances with the SEALS, but he found himself feeling surprisingly relaxed. Apparently, Bones was rubbing off on him, and even that didn’t seem to worry him. He raised his fists, turned slightly, and rose up on the balls of his feet, ready to spring.
Paccone charged in, swinging a wild haymaker that Dane easily ducked. He drove a punch into Paccone’s gut. The man had gone soft around the middle, and he grunted as the breath left him in a rush. He reeled backward, Dane following, peppering him with crisp jabs. Paccone backed into a dumpster, bounced off, and charged forward, his face a mask of crimson from cuts above both eyes and a bloody nose. He tried to grapple with Dane, but Dane grabbed him by the ears, yanked his head down, and drove his knee up into Paccone’s face. Paccone’s knees gave out and he dropped to all fours. A knee to the temple and he was flat on his face.
“Okay, so I took it outside. What’s the next step?” Dane asked.
“Run like hell!”
They dashed down the darkened street, slowing only when they were back on the main drag. No sense in drawing unnecessary attention. Bones got enough of that for being a six and-a-half foot tall Cherokee with a weightlifter’s build.
“Nice job, Maddock. Good thing our fight got broken up as soon as it started. I wouldn’t want you messing up my pretty face.”
“I didn’t need you beating me to a pulp either. I’m ugly enough as it is.”
“True.” Bones made a solemn nod. “You know, the best part of our evening is, we can cross two things off our leave bucket list: drinking beer and getting into a fight.”
Dane glanced up as another subway train passed overhead, the sound of steel wheels rocking away. “Yes, but what else can we do that won’t have us thrown into the back of a paddywagon?”
Bones opened his mouth, but froze at the sound of screeching tires, the sick thunk of bone against sheet metal, and shattering glass.
Both men turned their heads to see one of Boston’s famed yellow taxis stopped in the middle of the street with an uncharacteristic human hood ornament lodged in its windshield.
“Oh, crap!” Dane dashed toward the scene of the accident with Bones right behind him.
By the time they reached the cab, traffic had ground to a halt. The cab driver, a heavy set Hispanic man, stood outside the driver’s side door, a look of disbelief plastered across his tanned face. Another motorist stood outside his car, a bulky Motorola cell phone pressed to his ear, presumably calling emergency services to the scene.
The injured man had managed to roll off the hood of the cab and now lay on his back in the middle of the street. His lined face and silver-sprinkled brown hair put him at about sixty years old, give or take a few. He wore a tweed coat with worn elbow patches, much like a college professor would wear.
Dane knelt and pressed his fingers against the man’s carotid artery. His pulse throbbed madly, as if he had just run a marathon, and then suddenly weakened.
He isn’t going to make it, Dane thought, as the whine of sirens pierced the air. “Hold on. The paramedics are on the way.”
“Hey, what are you doing to that guy?” the cabbie demanded.
“Stand back, sir.” Bones grabbed the protesting taxi driver and pulling him away. “We’re trained in first aid.”
“Never… mind… the para.. medics.” The man’s blue eyes were glassy and his chest labored as his lungs fought to take in precious air. “Promise me…” he rasped, foamy blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. He grabbed the front of Dane’s shirt with surprising strength. “Promise…”
Dane didn’t know this man from Adam, but he found himself nodding. How could he deny the request of a dying man? “Of course, anything.” He didn’t know why he had said it but, at his words, the man smiled.
“Thank you,” he wheezed. “You must… find… the lantern. The lantern… is the key… to everything.”
“Lantern?” Dane didn’t understand.
The man reached into his coat pocket, wincing with the effort, and pulled out a cream-colored rectangle. “This… is the name of… a colleague.” He pressed the square into Dane’s hand. “Was expecting me. Must find it… Open the gates of freedom.”
“What do you mean?”
The man’s eyes glazed over and he seemed to be drifting out of consciousness.
“Sir?”
“The British… are… coming.” With that odd declaration, he fell silent, and breathed no more.
Dane stood and backed away. A crowd had gathered around, and he worked his way through the throng to where he saw Bones’ head sticking up over the others. Bones raised an eyebrow when he saw what Dane held: a small business card. He held it out for Bones to see.
Beneath the dead man’s bloody thumbprint, the card read: Prof. Gregory Remillard, American History, Boston University.
Dane took a deep breath and slipped the card into his pocket as soon the sirens drew closer. A police cruiser arrived a few seconds later.
An officer climbed out and approached the cab driver. A few minutes later, he approached Dane and Bones.
“I’m officer MacDougal.” Dane and Bones gave their names and MacDougal nodded. “You gave him first aid?” he asked.
“We would have,” Dane said, “but his injuries seemed to be internal. We just stayed with him until he died.”
“Cabbie says the guy just ran right out in front of his cab. Any idea why?”
Dane shook his head. “We heard the accident, but didn’t see it.”
Just then, a second patrol car came to a screeching halt alongside MacDougal’s car. A thickset blond man piled out and stalked over to where they stood. His nameplate read “O’Meara.”
“I got this, MacDougal.”
“Quick response time, Lieutenant.” Something about MacDougal’s tone gave Dane pause. “I’m surprised to see you out here.”
“It’s your lucky day. I just happened to be in the area when I heard the call. I’ll take over from here.”
“I can take their statements. No need for you to waste your time.”
“It’s all right.” O’Meara’s smile revealed coffee-stained teeth. “I like to do some real police work here and there. You can get back on patrol. It’s not like we’ve got a shortage of crime in the city.”
MacDougal seemed reluctant, but he finally gave a single nod and headed back to his vehicle.
In an instant, O’Meara’s genial tone turned serious.
“What happened here?”
“We’re not sure. The cabbie said the old man ran out in front of him. We got here too late to help.”
“Did the victim say anything to you? I mean, did he tell you why he ran out into the road like that?”
Dane looked to Bones for half a second before he returned his gaze to O’Meara. “I think he might have been having a mental breakdown or something. All he said was, ‘The British are coming.’”
The officer barked a laugh. “Perfect. Probably thought he had to get to the Old North Church in a hurry. “You gave your names to MacDougal?” Dane and Bones said they had. O’Meara told them they were free to go, turned on his heel, and headed over to speak to the cabbie.
Bones sidled up to Dane. “That’s not all the old dude said. I can tell by the look in your eye,” he whispered. “You just lied to a cop.”
Dane didn’t smirk or show any indication that his face held any emotion. He pocketed the officer’s business card along with the one the dying man had given him. “Surprised?”
“Just a little bit. But I’m proud of you. I might turn you into a normal human being yet.”
“He said,” Dane continued, watching as O’Meara stood by the body, “something about finding a lantern.” He paused and swallowed. “I have no idea what he means, but he gave me the name of someone to contact. He might have been crazy, but he made me promise I’d find this lantern for him.”
“Let me guess, you’ve got some weird family slogan, like, A Maddock always keeps his promises.”
Dane motioned for Bones to follow him further away from the scene and the possible prying ears of the Boston Police. “Not exactly a slogan, but I do try to keep my word.” Their footsteps clopped on the asphalt until they reached the stairs leading back to the subway.
“It’s cool with me if you want to follow up on this. I’m kind of curious about the whole thing. The dude might have been out of his mind from shock, but maybe not. What do you want to do about it?”
“I think I’d like to scratch that Colonial American History tour off the on-leave bucket list.” Dane took the stairs two at a time. “Something more interesting has just come up.”