The two men got closer to the helicopter, ducked low to avoid the spinning blades.
Damn, damn, damn.
Because of my pride and vanity, my one chance to get the son-of-a-bitch was fading away, for within seconds he’d be at the now-open door to the helicopter’s cabin, and he’d be gone.
Damn.
And how would I feel, and what could I say to Lawrence Thomas when that happened? That Curt had gotten clean away because of my arrogance?
For the first time in a while, I felt I had lost it all.
The two men got to the helicopter. Chesak tossed in the overnight bag, shook the hand of the older man, who then climbed into the cabin.
Chesak stepped back. Closed the door. Waved.
Moved back, head still low.
The engine noise increased, the helicopter lifted up and back, and then it was gone.
By then, Curt was back inside the house.
I let my breath out. Didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath.
I lowered my Beretta, took a swig of water. That had been too damn close.
So, what now? Chase after Chesak right now, surprise him as he’s settling back in?
Yeah, right.
There was Curt, and the guy I had spotted the night before taking a shower.
Didn’t mean there were only two of them in there.
Oh, I was sure there weren’t thirty or anything, but that didn’t mean I was about to embark on a suicide mission.
Not yet, anyway.
So I settled in, waited some more.
The afternoon dragged on. At one point I slowly moved away and used a convenient tree to urinate against, almost laughing at the thought that at least I wasn’t pissing against some guy pretending to be a tree trunk. I ate another granola bar, took a couple of Ibuprofen for my aching ankle, and slowly crawled back to my hiding place and let the afternoon drag away. A couple of times I heard something rustling in the leaves about me, but I never did see anything, which wasn’t surprising. A squirrel at play in the woods can sound like a coyote trotting up to you if you let your mind get away from you, and I was desperately trying not to let that happen.
The house was quiet again.
What could they be doing in there? Playing cribbage? Working the controls on some sort of video game? Surfing the Web for snuff videos? Discussing tips and techniques on how to kill people?
I yawned a couple more times. It was getting cooler. I was running plans and options through my head, wondering how much longer I could stay out here. I had food and water for a few days, and reasonable sleeping accommodations, and enough firepower to hopefully get the job done when the time came, but what I was missing was vitaclass="underline" good intelligence.
What I did know was important enough, but I still didn’t know how many were in there, if they were walking around armed, and what the interior of the house looked like. I could burst in right now, filled with fury and the confidence that I was doing God’s work in settling justice, but that wouldn’t be worth anything if I ended up in a laundry room on the first floor, a bullet through my forehead.
I stretched out my legs.
The sun was starting to set. Lights came on inside the house.
The rear door opened up.
Someone stepped out.
Chesak?
I focused my binoculars. The man stepped out into the yard, stopped, stretched his arms like he was taking a break.
With the binoculars, I could easily make out his face.
It wasn’t Curt Chesak.
It was Heywood Knowlton, history professor at Boston University.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I kept my view on him. He walked slowly and randomly, his head bent down like he was in serious thought mode. He had on a light-tan jacket but no hat, and I imagined his bald head was quite cold. His moustache-less beard seemed more scraggly than before.
He stepped closer. I quietly moved to the left. There were a couple of low evergreen trees between the two of us.
I didn’t hesitate.
I went over the stone wall, got into a crouch. I ran across the finely mowed rear yard, just as Knowlton had turned — head down, still apparently deep in thought — and I got him from the rear. Even though I’d been on the debate team in high school, I plowed into him like an angry NFL linebacker paying for two alimonies. I stayed on top of him as he fell, making sure I had a hand on the back of his neck, to push his face into the grass.
He let out an “oomph!” but that’s all I was going to allow. I dug the muzzle end of my Beretta into his right ear, and into his left I said, “Not a damn sound. Not a peep. You call for help, they’ll be coming out to help a corpse. Got it? Nod your head.”
He nodded his head.
“Put your arms out where I can see them,” I said.
The professor stretched out his arms.
“We’re going for a walk in the woods. Move with me. You say a word, you resist, you try to run away, trust me, Professor Knowlton, you’ll be a dead man.”
He got up, legs trembling, and he let me propel him back across the lawn, over the stone wall, and into the woods. I grabbed my little bag as we went past, and I was very pleased that he had carefully listened to every word I had said.
Almost restored my faith in higher education.
Near my campsite I tied his arms together at the elbows, an uncomfortable position and one that was almost impossible to wiggle out of. I sat him down against a pine trunk and got a small flashlight, and I stood across from him, stripped off my ghillie suit. It felt good to be free. I sat down on a small rock, flashlight and pistol in hand.
“Well, professor, didn’t philosopher John Dewey say the most effective way of learning was to have a great teacher sitting on the end of a log, with an eager student on the other?” I motioned with my Beretta. “Plenty of logs out there in the forest, but I think we’ll make do.”
He seemed to catch his breath, find his voice. “You… you… I know you. Shit. Yes. Cole. Right? The magazine writer who came into my office a few days ago.”
“A gold star for the teacher. Hey, gold stars. Was that another idea from John Dewey?”
“Dewey was overrated.”
“Maybe so, but he lived to be in his nineties and probably died in his own bed. If you want to do the same, start talking to me.”
“Go to hell. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
I went over, slapped him twice — hard — across his face. I stood over him. “Whatever ivory tower you live in, professor, is a long, long way from here. So let’s start with the basics. How many are in the house now?”
He coughed, cleared his throat. “Three.”
I slapped him again. “How many?”
“Three.”
Another hard slap that pushed him to the ground. “Jesus! Stop that, all right? There’s only three in the house.”
Breathing hard, I sat back on my rock. “Curt Chesak and who else?”
“Two minders.”
“Their names.”
“One is Corey. The other is Brad.”
“Which one is the blonde?”
“Corey. Jesus, Cole, what the hell is this all about?”
“I’m after Curt Chesak. Remember? He nearly killed a friend of mine.”
Knowlton spat out some saliva. “A friend? You’re doing this for a friend?”
“Yep.” I lifted my Beretta so he could take a good look at it in the dying light. “What are the three of them doing right now?”
“Cole… you don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“And neither do they. I don’t have much time. Answer my questions, fully and quickly, or I’m going to hurt your knees. It won’t kill you, but you’ll be in pain and walk with canes for the rest of your life.”
His breathing quickened. “A friend… not even a family member… a friend… ”
“You should try it sometime. Now. The rear door you came out of. Is it locked?”