Colding nodded. “You ever had to use that on the job?”
Gary laughed. “Do I look like Clint Eastwood? My preferred weapon is a bottle of single malt. I get more done drinking in the bars at Houghton-Hancock than I ever would with this stupid gun. I talk to strangers. I ask questions. I find out why people are in town. I see if people have any interest in Black Manitou, which they shouldn’t, because only locals even know it’s out here. The only shooting this kid does involves tequila and bourbon.”
Colding could hear the sincerity in Gary’s voice—the man hated carrying the weapon. “So if you don’t like the gun, why work for Genada?”
Gary nodded toward the Humvee. “My dad has lived on this island for fifty years, man. He’s not leaving. This is where I’ll wind up burying him. I need to be here for him, you know? And if I work for Genada, well, then I get paid to be here for him. I make crazy money, and all I do is drive this beautiful boat and bang tourists. Once or twice a year, Magnus and Danté come around. I say yessir and nosir and take them wherever they want to go. Maybe I’m not a gunslinger, but this is more like a permanent vacation than a job.”
“But you’ll use that gun if you have to,” Colding said, his voice low and serious. “If my people are in danger and I call you out here, you’re prepared to do what I tell you?”
“My dad is now one of your people. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him.”
Colding extended his hand. “Gary, I think you and I see eye to eye.”
Gary’s easy smile came back. They shook. “Anything you need from the mainland, just use the supersecret megaspy radio in the security room. Dad will show you how to get hold of me.”
“Thanks. Oh, and Magnus had a message for you. He said to make sure his snowmobile is ready.”
“It is. It’s in that shed with mine.” Gary pointed to the black metal shed at the foot of the dock. “I keep it there so when we’ve got five feet of snow, I can get to the mansion and back to the docks.”
“Five feet of snow,” Colding said, and laughed. “Whatever, dude, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Gary just smiled his stoner smile and nodded.
Colding stopped laughing. “Wait, you’re serious? Five feet?”
“Sure,” Gary said. “If it’s a mild winter.”
The Humvee’s horn blared.
“Can you two stop grab-assin’?” Clayton shouted from the vehicle. “I’ve got work ta do.”
Gary threw his dad a snappy salute, then untied the boat and hopped in. He climbed up a ladder to the flying bridge. Seconds later the Sharkcat’s engines gurgled to life—they sounded big and powerful. The boat had plenty of room, easily enough to evacuate the entire staff if it came to that.
Gary waved to Colding and shouted to be heard over the engine. “Good luck, chief. I’m just a call away if you need anything.” With that, Gary gunned the engine, trailing a strong wake as he headed out of the harbor.
Colding walked back to the Hummer and hopped in.
Clayton stared after the boat, then shook his head. “Such a show-off, that guy. I love him, but it’s hard when your son is a fairy.”
“A fairy?” Colding said. “You think your son is gay?”
Clayton shrugged. “He’s got an earring, eh? Pillow-biter for sure.”
“My word,” Sara said. “An earring on a man? Well, he’s got to be one of them there homosexuals.”
Colding rubbed his eyes. “Clayton, you are truly a man of culture and learning.”
“Ain’t that da truth,” Clayton said. “Okay, let’s get this shit finished so I can get on with my day. I get paid for maintenance, not for being a fuckin’ taxi driver.”
The term salt of the earth didn’t go far enough to describe Detweiler. More like the rock on which that salt might crystallize. “Clayton, I think you need to relax.”
“Ya? Well, think about this, eh?” Clayton leaned onto his left cheek and ripped off a loud, barking fart. The rotten-egg smell immediately filled the Hummer.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Colding said as he leaned his head out the window. Sara let out a gagging noise, but she was laughing as she rolled down both the backseat windows.
“Oh, Clayton!” she said, breathing through her shirtsleeve. “What crawled up your ass and died?”
Clayton’s shoulders bounced up and down in a chuckle. He breathed in deeply through his nose. “Oh, that was a good one, eh, Colding? Welcome to Black Manitou, city boy.”
“Just take us back to the mansion,” Colding said. “I want to see the security room.”
Clayton backed the Hummer off the foot of the dock, then drove over the sand-covered pavement and crested the dunes. He was still laughing when he drove onto the road leading to the mansion.
NOVEMBER 9: DRINK TILL YA YUKE
INSANITY. TIM FEELY had worked with Jian for two years, so he felt confident knowing insanity when he saw it. And all of this? Yeah, insanity.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, Erika Hoel had been licking single-malt scotch out of his belly button. Slowly. That was good. That was hot, and fun, and sexy. Sure, being stuck on a frozen island for months on end was crap on a cracker, but being there with a wild-ass Dutch cougar made it a tad more palatable.
Since then? Explosions. Sabotage. Brady Giovanni burned extra crispy. That same wild-ass Dutch cougar nearly choking out Jian with a fire axe. Colding all bloody. A gigantic plane and a secret frickin’ base filled with “Yoopers.” It was like a James Bond movie featuring inbred hicks.
And, perhaps worst of all, being awarded Erika’s duties.
He needed a drink. Maybe somewhere in this mansion he’d find one, and hopefully before he found a gun—because if he had to listen to this way-too-happy woman with the curlers in her hair for one more minute he was going to shoot himself right in the face.
“This is my favorite view on da whole island,” Stephanie said. “It’s da back porch.”
“Really?” Tim said. “I guess that’s a good name for a porch on the back of a house.”
Stephanie laughed. Her ex-jock husband did not. He shot Tim a glare that clearly said, Watch it, asshole. Guy wasn’t as big as Brady had been, but he was big enough. Tim decided he’d watch it.
Hangover or no hangover, the view from the sprawling veranda simply took Tim’s breath away. The mansion was a jewel atop a crown of snow-spotted golden sand dunes that sloped gently toward the shore.
Flecks of sand and snow blew across cut-stone steps that led almost to the beach. Whitecaps frosted the water all the way to the horizon. Hundreds of frothing spots stood stationary against the roiling waves—ship-killing chunks of granite. Two hundred yards out from shore, a towering rock rose sixty feet out of the water before it seemed to fold over on itself. “What’s that big rock that looks like a horse head?”
“That’s Horse Head Rock,” Stephanie said.
Of course that’s what they called it. Black Manitou Island, a place of poetry.
“Come on,” Stephanie said. “There’s so much more to show you!”
A wide, floor-to-ceiling picture window stood at the back of the veranda. French doors led into an expansive lounge filled with leather furniture and expensive-looking tables. A long mahogany bookshelf packed with old-leather tomes surrounded a large flat-panel TV. A matching mahogany bar with a marble counter and brass trim dominated the room. Behind it oh thank you, Lord, thank you! sat a well-lit, glass liquor cabinet filled with hundreds of bottles.