The Skorpion Directive Part 15

"Business? At the Bali Hai? During Spring Break?"

That was an excellent question, and one Nikki was having a hard time working out herself. In the end, she had simply wanted to get this meeting over with, so she had pushed ahead, never thinking about the lurid saturnalia she was going to step into down here.

"Yes. I guess I didn't think that through, did I?"

The cop looked at Nikki's clothes: a gauzy cotton sundress, light green, with a delicate pattern of interlaced golden flowers. A thin gold chain around her neck, complete with a tiny gold crucifix. Gold earrings with jade stones. Her olive skin was already deeply tanned, her long auburn hair pulled back in a s.h.i.+ning wave behind her ears. The cop's smile went away entirely.

"Miss . . . Look, can you pull over for a second? There's a parking lot up there beside The Purple Haze. Please."

The please please sounded a little imperious to Nikki's ear, but she did what the cop asked. The captain went back to her cruiser, killed the light bar, and followed Nikki's Town Car into a sandy parking lot behind a shuttered tiki bar with a CLOSED DUE TO LIQUOR VIOLATIONS sign on the doors. The cop parked the black-and-white, got out, locked it, and came around to the pa.s.senger side, opened it, and leaned into the car. sounded a little imperious to Nikki's ear, but she did what the cop asked. The captain went back to her cruiser, killed the light bar, and followed Nikki's Town Car into a sandy parking lot behind a shuttered tiki bar with a CLOSED DUE TO LIQUOR VIOLATIONS sign on the doors. The cop parked the black-and-white, got out, locked it, and came around to the pa.s.senger side, opened it, and leaned into the car.

"Mind if I sit in with you for a second, miss? My AC's shot, and I'm about to boil."

Nikki, puzzled but unwilling to argue, nodded. The cop got inside with a leathery creak from her equipment belt, sighing as she got herself arranged. She took off her uniform cap and set it on her knee, staring out at the crowds moving past them. Nikki had the air-conditioning up on FULL, and the cop, her face moist and her hair a little damp, leaned into the flow of cool air for a moment, her eyes closed. Then she sat back and looked across at Nikki.

"Have I done something wrong, Captain?"

The cop shook her head.

"Nope. This is a rental, right? From the airport? You just flew in, am I right?"

"Yes, but-"

"You don't know Panama City Beach at all, do you?"

"I've never been here before, ma'am."

" 'Ma'am'? You an Army brat? In the service yourself ?"

"No-"

"Don't mean to pry, but could I see some ID, miss?"

Nikki didn't bother asking why. She just handed it over. The cop flipped through the license, the rental policy, seemed satisfied, handed it back.

"Okay. I guess I should let you know, Miss Gandolfo, you are not the type of woman who should be meeting anyone anyone at the Bali Hai. What that place is, miss, is pretty much an outlaw-biker criminal enterprise retailing STDs and fitted out with the s.k.a.n.kiest s.k.a.n.ks who ever snorted up a line of c.o.ke. It's simply the very worst d.a.m.ned rat's-a.s.s, running-sore, p.i.s.s-tank maggot ranch between here and Pensacola, and that's saying quite a bit. We keep a cruiser outside there twenty-four/seven. I can't imagine-" at the Bali Hai. What that place is, miss, is pretty much an outlaw-biker criminal enterprise retailing STDs and fitted out with the s.k.a.n.kiest s.k.a.n.ks who ever snorted up a line of c.o.ke. It's simply the very worst d.a.m.ned rat's-a.s.s, running-sore, p.i.s.s-tank maggot ranch between here and Pensacola, and that's saying quite a bit. We keep a cruiser outside there twenty-four/seven. I can't imagine-"

Her radio erupted in a burst of cross talk. She reached up, said something into her shoulder mike in a low tone, and turned the radio down. She stuck out her hand, and Nikki shook it.

"My name's Marcy Cannon, by the way, Miss Gandolfo. Pleased ta meetcha. So, what I'm saying is, I can't imagine why you would want to be going to the Bali Hai Motel for any any reason. Not even business. You mind saying what sorta reason. Not even business. You mind saying what sorta business business brings you down here, 'specially during h.e.l.l Week?" brings you down here, 'specially during h.e.l.l Week?"

"With respect, Captain, is it important that I tell you?"

The cop shook her head, her Sam Browne creaking with the motion. She gave Nikki a broad, gleaming smile.

"Nope. None of my d.a.m.ned business, Miss Gandolfo. I'm a big old nosey parker, for sure. But I'm also the top kick in these parts. This is my beach, and I run it like an old-time marshal. Think of me as Wyatt Earp. So, I'm just askin' politely, now, because if you really gotta go to the Bali Hai I'm gonna send one of my guys along to see you get out of there okay, and I'd like him to know if the trip is worth his bitter salt tears."

Nikki said nothing for a time.

The cop, completely at ease with silence, said the same.

"Okay," said Nikki, "I'm on a research project for a professor at the University of Virginia-"

"No way! That's my my old school. What's your cadre?" old school. What's your cadre?"

Nikki was ready for that.

"The Purple Shadows."

The cop shook her head, going back into the memory.

"I was with the Tilkas. Lots of fun. You take a degree?"

At UV, students didn't "graduate," they "took a degree."

"No. Transferred to Georgetown. I was only there a year."

"Me neither. Went into criminal justice and finished up at Glynco. Still back the Cavaliers, though. For my sins. Anyway, you were saying . . . ?"

Nikki, feeling like a rat, gave her the cover story as it had been laid out in the notes Cather had included on the flash drive: a general history of the Cold War and various covert operations connected with it, a possible book on the subject, being prepared by a poli-sci professor at UV.

Captain Cannon listened with every appearance of belief, her broad, open face showing nothing but polite interest. Nikki finished the story with the name of the person she was in town to interview, an ex-SAS officer named Raymond Paget Fyke.

Cannon listened to the name, shook her head slowly.

"Okay, first off-and I mean no disrespect, miss-that story sounds like a load of utter horse p.o.o.p. There is no doubt in my mind that you work for some three-letter government agency-IRS, FBI, maybe the PTA-and you are very sweetly twisting my tail. But, then, there's no law against s.h.i.+ning on a beat cop. I got no right to a straight answer, and we do live in strange days. Concerning your Mr. Fyke, I don't know the fella. You'd think, if he's ex-SAS, in my town I'd of heard of a guy like that. Although, G.o.d knows, this coast is packed with ex-military of every patch and stripe. This the guy who's supposed to be staying at the Bali Hai . . . ?"

"That's my information."

"What's his description?"

"Six-three. Two hundred pounds. Very muscular. Has a salt-and-pepper beard, shaved close. Green eyes. He may have a drinking problem. Speaks with a slight Irish accent. I'm also told he likes to fight, and his nose has been broken several times so it's sort of . . . squashed."

Cannon was looking straight across at Nikki, her face settling into a look of pure, even carnivorous, delight.

"As I live and breathe. The things you tell me, my dear. And this gentleman lives at the Bali Hai? Pray tell, is he expecting expecting you?" you?"

"That was his last fixed address, ma'am. And, no, he isn't. He also may not be going by that name. He has apparently irritated some people on the International Criminal Court."

"Good for him! Buncha dips.h.i.+t, left-wing busybodies."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Actually, Miss Gandolfo, the man you're describing sounds a lot like a guy I know. Works freelance at the Bali Hai, as a bouncer. But he doesn't live live there. This maybe could be your guy?" there. This maybe could be your guy?"

"Could be, ma'am."

Cannon gave her a broad, affectionate grin.

"Ma'am again. If you're not in the again. If you're not in the gummint gummint, young lady, I'm Hillary Rodham Clinton," she said, opening her door and climbing out. Nikki, who was beginning to think her covert skills were deeply inadequate, thought-hoped-that Cannon was leaving. She was wrong. Cannon leaned back inside, raised her eyebrows.

"You coming along, Beatrice?"

"Me? With you? Where?"

"We're taking my ride. You just lock yours up right here. My guys will see to it."

Nikki didn't like the sound of that at all.

"Where are we going?"

Cannon gave her another one of those carnivorous grins.

"You just come along with me, my dear. Trust in the Good Lord, and all will be revealed."

WHAT the Good Lord had to reveal was a sharp left turn off Front Beach Road and into a narrow alley called Robin Lane that led north, away from the ocean, into the flatlands and marshes of the inland waters. Robin Lane ran between two high wooden fences: beyond the fences Nikki could make out the floodlit grounds of what looked like a very expensive gated community. the Good Lord had to reveal was a sharp left turn off Front Beach Road and into a narrow alley called Robin Lane that led north, away from the ocean, into the flatlands and marshes of the inland waters. Robin Lane ran between two high wooden fences: beyond the fences Nikki could make out the floodlit grounds of what looked like a very expensive gated community.

Captain Cannon had kept up a lighthearted banter all the way from Dirty d.i.c.k's, staying off the topic of Nikki's trip down to Panama City Beach and, although Nikki tried to open it up once, neatly avoiding saying anything more informative about their destination and what it had to do with Raymond Paget Fyke.

Halfway up the long curving lane, Cannon killed the headlights. A minute later, she brought the cruiser to a rolling stop beside a large wooden sign showing rolling waves cras.h.i.+ng into a barrier mound covered in sea gra.s.s and announcing WINDWARD Sh.o.r.eS ESTATE HOMES.

The gates stood wide open. In the dim glow from the streetlights Nikki could see what looked like a very large black-water lagoon surrounded by expensive homes and bound on one side by a tennis court and a golfing range. At the far end of the ma.s.sive lagoon, a crowd of people were gathered on a wide, lantern-lit dock, and the sound of reggae and happy, youthful chatter drifted across the water. The cop shut the car down, looked across at Nikki.

"What sorta shoes you got there, Bea? I can call you Bea?"

"Please. They're sandals."

"Gotta do. Now, you stay behind me, you folla? Come along, now, and mind you close the door real soft, okay?"

Nikki did as she was told, following in the wake of the cop, who was surprisingly light-footed for a woman of her size, down the sandy lane and onto the gra.s.sy verge of the lagoon. The water smelled of mud and salt and rotting weeds. Captain Cannon went a few yards into the darkness, stopped, held up a hand to keep Nikki behind her.

"Fitch," she said in a carrying whisper. "You out there?"

A low voice came out of the darkness, a man's voice, in a whisper, hoa.r.s.e, deep, wary.

"Marcy? That you, Marcy?"

"It is. Safe to come up?"

"If you stay away from the water. She's close close. I can hear her."

Cannon paused a moment, pulled out her Glock, turned around to Nikki. "You stay here a moment, would you, dear? And maybe you should step back from the water a little."

"Captain Cannon, what the heck is going on?"

"Aside from bouncing nimrods out of the Bali Hai, Fitch runs a water park up off Hutchinson, a tourist thing. Gators and sharks and such. He lost a cow gator a few days back. Name of Cloris Leachman. He's been looking for her ever since. We all figure she's in this lagoon."

"An alligator alligator? How big big an alligator?" an alligator?"

"Eight feet. Nine hundred pounds. Big enough to eat a German shepherd last week. 'Long with any number of cats and small dogs, all in this area. Fitch has the lagoon sealed off. And here he sits, every evening, waiting for her to come up for air. Stay here, and don't move around a lot, okay?"

Nikki, her head a little spinny, stepped back into the light from the laneway, thinking that the trip from Seven Oaks, Maryland, to Panama City Beach, Florida, involved much more than mileage.

Cannon, moving quietly, faded into the gloom along the edge of the water, leaving Nikki alone in the downlight, nervously listening to the roar and boom of the college crowds a few blocks south and to the delicate lap and ripple of wavelets on the gra.s.sy bank of the lagoon. The party at the far end of the inland lake rolled on, oblivious. And somewhere up on her bank, a lady cop and someone named Fitch were trying to catch an alligator. If she'd been in her own vehicle, she'd be six blocks away and accelerating.

Five long minutes pa.s.sed, and then she heard a swirling of water, a loud splash, and two m.u.f.fled reports, deep and low, rather like someone slamming a car door. Another minute, and she heard muted voices, getting closer, and the whisper of shoes in wet gra.s.s and a slithery sound, something large coming through the saw gra.s.s. Nikki was inside the cruiser by the time two figures appeared in the light from the lane: Captain Cannon, and, just behind her, barefoot and wearing faded jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt-no clever sayings, just a black tee-a large, slope-shouldered man with long black hair shoved behind his ears and a close-cut salt-and-pepper beard.

He had a big bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder and was dragging a very unhappy alligator, trussed up like a Christmas parcel and hissing like the air brakes on a Freightliner. The light was dim, but Nikki was pretty certain the man was Ray Fyke.

Cannon came forward as Nikki got back out of the cruiser. Cannon's face was a little flushed. Something was humming in the air between the pair, and Nikki realized that Captain Cannon and this hard-looking man had more in common than alligator hunting.

"We got her," said Cannon a little redundantly, wiping her hands on the b.u.t.t of her uniform slacks, her eyes a little wild.

"You shot her?" asked Nikki, staying well clear of the reptile, which was now twisting herself around inside a network of ropes and showing every sign of ripping her way clear.

"No, miss," said Fyke, coming forward into the light, his eyes squinting against the glare, his seamed and weather-beaten face cracking into a broad smile. "We just calmed her down with a tranq and hogged her up. We'll call a couple of my boyos with a pickup truck and take her back to the water park."

There was an uneasy pause as what was not being said became painfully obvious, so Marcy Cannon said it.

"Brendan," she said in the kind of warning tone all wise and attentive males learn to fear, "I'd like you to meet a Miss Gandolfo Miss Gandolfo. She's flown all the way from Virginia just to meet you you. Isn't that special? Beatrice, may I present the bottom-feeding slug known-to me me anyway-as Brendan Fitch." anyway-as Brendan Fitch."

After a momentary hesitation, and a very wary glance at Marcy's face, Fyke stuck out a hand, took Nikki's hand in a gentle, dry-skinned grasp, held it for a moment as he smiled down on her with a less-than-fatherly look in his eyes, taking her in from hair to sandals and back again, pausing appreciatively at various points of interest along the way.

"Beatrice Gandolfo, is it?" he asked with a wry smile. "Well, you have a twin in the living world, Miss Gandolfo, although I know her only by her photograph. Do you by any chance know a young lady named Nicole Turrin at all?"

"I do," said Nikki. "And would you by any chance know a man named Raymond Paget Fyke? At all?"

Fyke smiled broadly, said nothing for a beat or two, while the alligator hissed and a wind off the Gulf stirred the sea gra.s.s.

Then, turning to Marcy and putting a hand on her left shoulder, Fyke said, "Marcy, I believe I have some explaining to do. I propose that the three of us go for a drink."

"Or three," said Marcy Cannon, shrugging his hand away.

SINCE Cannon had to get her s.h.i.+ft covered and Fyke had to get Cloris Leachman back to her tank, the drinks turned into a late-night dinner at an oceanside restaurant called The Sands, still busy at this hour but mercifully free of Spring Breakers. The restaurant ran for almost a half block along the barrier dunes, a rambling wooden structure made mostly of gla.s.s and square-cut timber, with accents of polished bra.s.s, hardwood floors, green gla.s.s lights hovering above the booths, and a panoramic view of what looked to Nikki like the edge of the universe, a perfect inky blackness that started just beyond the walkway lights and stretched all the way to infinity. White-curling waves unfolded along the sh.o.r.eline, and far out to sea a tanker, yellow in the haze and glimmering like witch fire in a limitless void, crawled slowly into the east toward a distant oil rig, a grid of floodlit spires far out there on the edge of the night. The windows were wide open, and a cool breeze laden with salt and seaweed moved the candle flames and stirred the gold curtains. They sat in a semicircle around the comfortable booth, ordered up a bottle of pinot grigio for Marcy and Nikki. Fyke called for a double Jameson's, neat with a beer chaser. But Marcy, who knew her man-or, until tonight, thought she did-changed that to a gla.s.s of Chianti. A small one. Fyke, a wise man, let it stand. Cannon had to get her s.h.i.+ft covered and Fyke had to get Cloris Leachman back to her tank, the drinks turned into a late-night dinner at an oceanside restaurant called The Sands, still busy at this hour but mercifully free of Spring Breakers. The restaurant ran for almost a half block along the barrier dunes, a rambling wooden structure made mostly of gla.s.s and square-cut timber, with accents of polished bra.s.s, hardwood floors, green gla.s.s lights hovering above the booths, and a panoramic view of what looked to Nikki like the edge of the universe, a perfect inky blackness that started just beyond the walkway lights and stretched all the way to infinity. White-curling waves unfolded along the sh.o.r.eline, and far out to sea a tanker, yellow in the haze and glimmering like witch fire in a limitless void, crawled slowly into the east toward a distant oil rig, a grid of floodlit spires far out there on the edge of the night. The windows were wide open, and a cool breeze laden with salt and seaweed moved the candle flames and stirred the gold curtains. They sat in a semicircle around the comfortable booth, ordered up a bottle of pinot grigio for Marcy and Nikki. Fyke called for a double Jameson's, neat with a beer chaser. But Marcy, who knew her man-or, until tonight, thought she did-changed that to a gla.s.s of Chianti. A small one. Fyke, a wise man, let it stand.

Their drinks came, the willowy waiter wafted away on a sh.e.l.l-pink cloud, and a sudden and uneasy silence came down, taking a place at the table like an unwelcome guest.

Nikki broke it.

"Captain Cannon-"