The Vault of Hercules

Chapter 15

On to an undisclosed location the car roared away from the violent scene, leaving the group of miscreants furious and panicked over the injured thug on the ground. Sam did not speak and neither did Norris. The only sound was the purr of the 3.0L V-6 engine thundering under the shelter of the long hood of the Mercedes C–Class that glided along the main road in the direction of Otterston Loch.

Light tremors became evident to Sam after about four minutes of silent driving. His breath quivered and he locked his hands together to stop shaking, but the odd thing was that he couldn’t feel bad about any of it. There was none of that human reaction — that guilt and reconsideration — inside of him. Only the belated jolt of adrenaline he’d had to suppress. In fact, all Sam could think of was how grateful he was that the gang he left in his trail didn’t know which car was his, otherwise he’d certainly come back to a heap of junk where his BMW used to be.

“You could have gotten filleted back there, you realize,” Norris finally noted.

“Aye.”

“That's it? Do you have any idea what kind of rubbish that bunch is, old boy? Jesus, they would have carved you like Aunty Laura's Christmas turkey had I not shown up.” He looked at the journalist in utter shock. “Not that you were exactly sane, either.”

“Aye.”

Sam didn’t have much else to say. What could he say? He conceded. He could have been killed and yes, he was beside himself with brutality. But that was how it was and he couldn’t see a reason to elaborate on obvious facts. However, as he saw the sign for the small town of Aberdour, he finally decided to formulate whole sentences. “Where are we going, Norris?”

“Burnt Island should do. There’s a small seafood restaurant where we can have a pint and…” he looked at Sam with reprimand, “… compose ourselves.”

“I don't want to go out that far. That’s Paddy’s turf,” Sam admitted. “It’s too close to Kirkcaldy and that‘s where I might just run into my… ex-friend,” Sam forced out, feeling the fresh hell in his heart still healthy.

“Don't worry, we aren't going out that far, Sam,” Norris assured him. The crown of his bald head almost touched the roof of the car, but his body was in great shape. Sam had noticed that the young man he’d taken under his wing so long ago had become everything in appearance that he was in status. A suit and open button shirt with a scarf dressed the tough-looking freelancer. He’d never been handsome, but his features looked good in fine style. By his Cartier watch Sam could see that the underworld was a lucrative destiny for Norris, but he still wouldn’t trade places with him.

“We don't have much time,” Sam said, looking decidedly tense as he stared ahead on the road. “I need this information yesterday, Norris. Now, I know I cannot afford you and I don't exactly have any favors to call in on you, but this is a child's life at stake.”

“I see,” Norris replied, checking his rear view mirror again. Every few seconds he would do this, making him appear even more covert than his reputation dictated. Sam just had to chuckle.

“What?” Norris asked as they turned into the small road near the beach were the restaurant was located. The car eased around the corner, rocking like a space ship under Sam before it came to a halt in front of a quaint rectangular wood building perched up on large posts. Its huge windows stretched most of the length of the sides, which made for breathtaking views of the Firth of Forth and its azure appeal when the weather was mild. He switched off the engine and looked at Sam's amused face, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“What, Sam?” he asked again with a bit more gusto.

Sam shook his head and smiled, “You really have made a good life for yourself, you know, Norris. I’m impressed at how far you've come since…” He stopped short of mentioning the atrocious incident that ruptured all morality and compassion Norris possessed, but the young man was sharp and quite indifferent about propriety.

“That time when they killed my family and got away Scot free? Aye, I suppose I’ve advanced since then, Mr. Cleave.” He comforted Sam's apologetic notion by being especially nonchalant about it. “And not just financially. You do know that if you’re seen with me your reputation will be shot to hell, don't you? A prominent investigative journalist cavorting with a crook wanted by several government agencies and terrorist organizations? Your laurels will never pull you out of that heap, my friend.”

Sam scoffed, a sorrowful and empty smile crossing his face as his eyes stared into space. “Aye, my reputation, my pristine certification of name and loyalty,” he said monotonously, “by which accords are struck and promises are forged.” But when his eyes met Norris' the freelancer recognized a particular look in Sam; a look he too had once known well.

That sheen in the eye was the silent messenger of despair, the eyes carrying tidings that the soul had forfeited all condolence of innate consideration; the individual was at the end of their tether, yet could not end the purgatory. “You know who you remind me of, Sam?”

“Who?” Sam asked. “And if you say Carl Kolchak, I swear to Christ I will snap your neck right here in your Mercedes.”

Norris rarely laughed, unless he’d just sealed someone's fate or successfully robbed a financial conglomerate with a worm virus. But Sam Cleave could always provoke a fit of laughter from him. The Scottish journo had such quick wit with dry undertones that he could conjure a laugh out of him in a second, an admirable feat in Norris' opinion. “No, not Kolchak, although…”

“Norris, I swear,” Sam warned, unaware that the sudden turn in conversation had lightened his heart's heavy burden considerably.

“You remind me of Prometheus,” Norris revealed plainly, as if the mythical Titan actually existed as a material being; as if he was an old acquaintance. Bewildered, Sam stared at Norris, but that soon changed into something acceptable once Sam reminded himself of the tale.

“You think I'm a Titan? Of course you do.” Sam winked.

“No, seriously. This thing with you and your friend parting ways is killing you. I’ve not laid eyes on you for close to, what, about eight years? And it took me all of two minutes to pick up on the predicament your psyche is in because of what you told me,” Norris explained. “Listen, Sammy-boy. It’s clear as fucking crystal that you’re in a state of torment. Whether you do it to yourself or not, you keep getting up after to see if you can fix the problem, but just as the next day comes you fall back on that rock and a bloody raptor eats your guts. I can see it in your face. And you know what? When my guts were wrenched from guilt and heart-sore and all the tallied sins I blamed myself for, I got worse by the day. By the day, Sam! If you keep playing martyr like this it will kill you inside of a week.”

“That’s why I need you,” Sam frowned. “You’re my only hope at breaking the curse, Norris. You’re my Heracles, mate. Only you can give me the information that will help me get off the mountain. I cannot redeem myself until I’ve done something concrete to help Paddy find his daughter, understand?”

“I get it. I do,” Norris assured him, watching the surroundings outside the vehicle as he spoke. “But you have to take it easy, man. Jesus, maiming muggers is not exactly going to help you stay like, undercover and shit, you know? You have to just stop this burn-out bullshit and focus on what you have to get done.”

“Look at us,” Sam scoffed. “I used to give you advice on how to outrun the devil.”

“Aye, and see how it made me flourish,” Norris bragged, slipping a brand new cigarette in between his lips. He offered the pack to Sam, pulling it away just as Sam reached for one. “Just one thing… no burning anybody's fucking eyes out, eh?”

“I cross my heart,” Sam amused him. “Now, can we discuss the deal?”

Norris lit Sam's fag and nodded. “Right, what do you need from me?” He quickly reiterated something he had made clear before on the phone. “Just remember, I don't do the wee barras, you hear me? No children in my projects, hey?”

“Relax,” Sam said. “It’s no different from tailing a target, Norris. You track down the fucker who took this girl and the other woman, and you tell me where to find him. Chop-chop.”

“Good. That I can do,” Norris said, exhaling a long stream of smoke out his car window. “Just don't want to directly track sprogs. Hate the little tykes. Never liked 'em. But still, I'm not a monster. I don't want to hunt them or do a hit on them — nothing like that.”

“I know. Just talk to the roaches and dig up that maggot for me. I'll do the rest,” Sam commanded. “What's your fee for this? Just the service, not the hit.”

Norris looked out the window, sucking on the butt between his thumb and index finger, taking his time to calculate the risks involved to name his price. Eventually he sighed and looked at the journalist with the bloodshot eyes. “I tell you what, Sam. You just keep the Secret Service and Interpol off my track and I'll do you this solid.”

“That's it?” Sam gawked. It was unusual for Norris to provide a service without mercenary rewards. In fact, the man rivaled Scrooge himself when it came to greed and thrift. That was clear by his clothing and accessories. Granted, freedom was of utmost importance for a wealthy criminal of his caliber, so the request was reasonable.

“That's it. Just this once. And I better stay a ghost, eh? If I as much as get a whiff of Pollis or the Queen's sniffers like that mate of yours, you'll be missing more than a liver, Sam. I canna have my operations compromised, not even for a good cause.”

“Aye, Norris, I'm aware of that. I’ll make sure nobody knows who my source is. You just get me his position and you can walk away, rob the Pope, fuck the Dutchess of Killakee, whatever you wish. Our business only goes that far.”

“Alright,” the freelancer agreed, flicking his cigarette out the window.

Sam sighed, “Great, we drove all the way out here to talk in the restaurant, and we conclude our terms in the car.”

“Oh, no, Sam,” the young sniper chuckled as he flung his door wide open. “The pubbing was not for business, mate. Now we grab a few gigots and have some chow, you and me. I'll take you back on a full stomach. It's the least I can do until the vulture comes to eat your guts again tomorrow.”