Poseidon's Arrow dp-22 Read online

  “I’d like that.”

  With a grin he slid the check across the table to her. “But for now, how about we go find Heiland’s cabin before it gets completely dark.”

  Nichols had told them they couldn’t get lost and he was right. His directions sent them down a single-lane road that skirted the Acoustic Research Center and continued along the southern edge of the inlet. They passed clusters of cabins that grew fewer in number as the town lights receded behind them. The road tracked toward the bay’s entrance, then turned south, following the lake’s irregular shore. They drove another few miles before the road ended in a pine-clustered cul-de-sac. A narrow gravel drive led to a red wooden house facing the water.

  “That looks like the place,” Ann said, confirming the address on a mailbox.

  Pitt drove the rental car down the drive and parked beside an attached garage that looked large enough to house a dozen vehicles. No lights were on in the house, and a desolate silence permeated the grounds.

  Ann noticed the first stars visible overhead as she felt a light breeze blow in from the lake. “I wish we had a flashlight,” she said, poking her crutches at the uneven ground that sloped toward the lake.

  “Why don’t you just head for the front door and I’ll go look for the keys out back,” Pitt said.

  He stepped around the side of the garage and followed a footpath to the rear of the house. Just a thin band of tall pines separated the backyard from the water. Pitt could tell the house sat on a prime parcel of land that offered a breathtaking view of the lake. He swatted at a mosquito buzzing in his ear as he stepped onto a wide porch that ran the length of the house. He quickly spotted the old bell centered on a coffee table surrounded by some Adirondack chairs. The keys were indeed there, attached to a floatable chain used by boaters. Retracing his steps, he glanced toward the lake, noticing a private dock at the property line with a dark-colored boat moored alongside.

  Ann had made her way to the front door and stood resting on her crutches. “Any luck?”

  Pitt dropped the keys into her hand. “Just as advertised.”

  She unlocked the door and stepped inside, groping for a switch. Pitt followed her in as she flipped on a bank of overhead spotlights that illuminated the interior. The antique cabin had been tastefully updated over the years. The kitchen glimmered with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, while the living room featured a large flat-panel television. A pair of stuffed trout hung next to an antique fly rod above the rock fireplace, an ode to one of the owner’s longtime passions.

  Uncomfortable scouring the dead man’s refuge, Ann quickly hobbled through the house searching for an office or workshop. All she found were four large bedrooms.

  “We better hope there’s something in the garage.” She looked toward a door at the end of the hall.

  Pitt followed her as she opened the door and flicked on the lights. The sight surprised them both.

  Though they expected to find a workshop of some sort, they never anticipated that a top-drawer research lab would be hidden in the Idaho woods. The garage looked like it had been transferred from the heart of Silicon Valley. The bright overhead lights illuminated a spotlessly clean white room filled with stainless steel workbenches. Rack after rack of electronic test equipment lined one wall; another corner was set up as a fabrication area. A long, narrow tank filled with water, used for marine hull and propulsion testing, stretched nearly the length of the building. But the space wasn’t entirely devoted to work, Pitt noted. In one corner stood a 1950s-era pinball machine next to an elaborate espresso machine.

  “Jackpot,” Pitt said.

  Ann limped her way across the room, where a large executive desk was positioned next to two easy chairs. A pair of laptop computers sat open beside several bound journals and stacks of schematic diagrams. Ann picked up a journal and read a few lines of the handwritten notes.

  “This is dated just a few days ago,” she said. “He describes a series of successful tests of ‘SM’ in the lake and his plans for a final saltwater proof run in San Diego.”

  “SM. That would be Slippery Mumm.”

  “Thank goodness. His notes and data look to be all here. The plans haven’t been lost.”

  The words had barely left her mouth when the lights to the house went off, leaving them in a sea of blackness.

  23

  THE TWO MEN HAD PULLED UP SHORT OF THE CABIN upon seeing a car parked in the drive. The driver opened the trunk, and each man retrieved a Glock semiautomatic pistol and a pair of night vision goggles. Darkness had enveloped the mountain lake by then, and a moonless night offered little illumination.

  With trained stealth, they surveyed the cabin’s perimeter and located the electrical panel box. Prying open the cover, one of them found the main breaker and flipped it off.

  Inside the windowless lab, it turned as black as a mine shaft at midnight. Ann let out a faint gasp. “What a place to be when the power goes out,” she said, a nervous uptick in her voice.

  “May be just a power surge,” Pitt said. “Stay still for a moment so you don’t trip and fall.”

  As they waited, an uneasy apprehension bedeviled Pitt’s thoughts. “Try turning on the laptop computer for light,” he said. “It should have some battery power.”

  “Good idea.” Ann set down the journal and felt on the desk for one of the laptops. She located one and pressed a variety of keys, hoping to locate the power button.

  From inside the house, Pitt heard the hall floorboards creak. They weren’t alone. He reached toward the workbench beside him and ran his hand across its surface, probing for a weapon. Ignoring some strands of loose wire, he felt a tool—a tiny pair of needle-nose pliers—and he palmed it in his hand.

  “There, I think I got it,” Ann said. The computer began to boot up, and she spun the screen toward Pitt, casting the room in a turquoise glow. The faint light reached the house door just as it burst open. Two intruders charged in, then froze as they surveyed the interior.

  Pitt saw they were both short but muscular, dressed in dark clothes and wearing night vision goggles. They held Glocks at arm’s length and swept the room mechanically until locking sights on Ann and Pitt.

  “Do not move!” the lead assailant shouted with a slight Spanish accent.

  He produced a flashlight and aimed its beam at them. Ann had to squint when the light lingered on her face.

  The gunman strode forward, keeping his weapon trained on Pitt. “Back against the wall,” he said, illuminating the path with his flashlight.

  Ann eased up her crutches and hobbled over to Pitt, then they both stepped to the side wall. A door in the wall led to the backyard, and Pitt gently nudged Ann closer to it as the gunman called to his partner. The second man approached and took up a guard position in front of Ann and Pitt, his gun fixed on them. The other man holstered his weapon, raised his goggles, and used his flashlight to begin searching the lab.

  He was thorough, Pitt noted, and he knew what he was looking for. He started by examining the laptops and desk journals Ann had found, then methodically searched the lab itself. It took nearly ten minutes before he returned to the desk and organized the items he wanted. Locating an empty plastic bin, he stuffed it with Heiland’s notes and journals.

  Ann huddled close to Pitt, stunned that she was staring down the barrel of a gun for the second time in two days. Anger began to push aside her fear as she saw Heiland’s work being stolen right in front of her. Emptying the desk drawers, the burglar stuffed the contents into the bin, finishing it off with the two laptops.

  “Are you done?” the man standing guard asked.

  “Almost.” The other man glanced at Ann and Pitt with annoyance. “Stay here with them until I get back.”

  He hoisted the bin onto his shoulder and crossed the lab, guided by his flashlight.

  A few seconds after he left the room, the guard called out to him, but he received no reply.

  Pitt could hear the intruder as he lumbered throu
gh the house and exited the front door. He didn’t have to be a psychic to know nothing good would come from his return.

  Without the lights from the flashlight and computer, the garage had again turned inky black. Too black, Pitt realized with a sudden flicker of hope. The guard’s night vision goggles required some form of ambient light to function, be it only faint starlight. But the only source of ambient light in the garage was the laptop computer and it had been removed. That’s why the guard had called to his partner—because he could no longer see anything.

  Pitt’s theory was confirmed when he heard a zipper being pulled open on the guard’s jacket. He was fishing for his own flashlight. Pitt didn’t let him make the catch.

  Pulling one of Ann’s crutches from her grasp, he spun it into a battering ram and charged forward. He could only hope that the guard remained where he was when his partner had left, five feet directly in front of Pitt.

  As he fumbled for his light, the guard had lowered his gun hand and was totally unprepared when the rubberized foot of the crutch slammed into his sternum. The unseen blow thrust him backward, sprawling across Heiland’s desk. He whipped his gun around and fired several blind shots, not realizing he was aiming three feet over Pitt’s head.

  “Ann, get out the back door now!” Pitt shouted.

  Ducking low, he spun the crutch around again and started swinging it, trying to make contact with the prone gunman. The muzzle flashes gave him guidance, and he batted the aluminum crutch against the man’s wrist with a bone-shattering crack, sending the gun flying.

  Ann had dropped to the ground at the first gunfire and felt along the wall until locating the door, then the handle. She twisted the knob of the dead bolt above it and flung open the door. Grabbing her remaining crutch, she crawled out, then hopped away from the building.

  Before the door swung shut, she heard the gunman let out a wail from the pain of his fractured wrist. He scrambled off the desk to escape Pitt’s onslaught. Pitt could hear him stagger to his feet, but now he was beyond reach and out of sight. Knowing that Ann couldn’t move fast with her hurt ankle, Pitt pressed the attack to buy her more time. He dropped the crutch and hurled himself onto the desk, sliding across the spot where the guard had backpedaled seconds before.

  Spinning as he slid, Pitt landed on his feet and took a step forward, blindly swinging his fist in an arc in front of him. His knuckles only grazed the jacket of the guard, who had stepped to Pitt’s left.

  The guard countered with his good hand, striking a solid punch to Pitt’s shoulder.

  Pitt recoiled and shook off the blow. He knew where his target was and he stepped forward with two quick strikes. He connected with both fists, barreling a left and a right into the guard’s chest. The man grunted as he staggered backward, tripping over a chair and clattering to the ground.

  Pitt had no time to finish the attack. The hallway door flew open and the other gunman, alerted by the shooting, ran in. He scanned his flashlight across the room, hesitating on the guard’s fallen body before focusing on Pitt a few steps away.

  Pitt reacted instantly, flinging himself back across the desk. The gunman tried to track his movements with the light while firing a snap shot, but the bullet went high.

  Pitt slid off the desk and onto the floor, ducking out of the shooter’s sight. He wasted no time lying still, scurrying across the floor to the back wall. He bumped against the discarded crutch and plucked it up.

  The gunman bolted after Pitt. The beam from his light bounced across the floor as he moved, gradually zeroing in on his prey.

  But the light also illuminated the rear door, just a few feet beyond Pitt. Still crouching, he lunged for it, reaching for the handle a second before his torso slammed against the lower half of the door. He caught the handle and twisted, and his weight blasted the door open.

  Halfway across the lab, the gunman raised his arm and fired three quick shots on the run. Pitt felt a sting in his leg as he yanked the crutch after him and slammed the door closed.

  Springing to his feet, Pitt wedged the crutch’s arm pad beneath the door handle as a makeshift lock. It might give him an extra ten, maybe twenty seconds. But that still wouldn’t be enough. Somewhere in the darkness, Ann was hobbling about. He had to find her, and fast. They would both be sitting ducks for the gunmen, with their night vision goggles, once they exited the lab.

  He scrambled toward their car, but then heard a motor cranking over nearby. It didn’t come from the road but down by the lake. Pitt spun in his tracks and ran for the water, thinking that they might just have a chance after all.

  24

  THE MOTOR RUMBLED TO LIFE, NOT THE TINNY whine from a compact rental car but the throaty gurgle of a powerboat. Pitt took off toward the dock, admiring Ann’s plan to escape in Heiland’s boat. For her part, it was simply easier to navigate downhill on her tender ankle, and the boat represented a closer target. With the keys already in her pocket, she had just prayed that she could get it started.

  Inside the lab, the gunman found himself stymied by the back door. The aluminum crutch had pinned it closed, at least momentarily. The angered man shoved violently at it, finally bending the crutch until it slid from beneath the door handle and fell to the ground. Charging out the door, he turned toward the sound of the boat. He spotted the shadowy blur of Pitt running amid the shoreline trees and took off in pursuit.

  Pitt was breathing hard, and his left leg ached, as he reached a gravel footpath that led to the lakefront. He could faintly make out the figure of Ann standing in the boat’s cockpit, looking in his direction. Having heard the crash of the lab door opening, he didn’t have to look behind him to know the gunman had no plans to let them get away.

  “Cast off, Ann!” he shouted. “Don’t wait.”

  Ann crawled onto the dock and untied the stern line, then limped over and released the bowline. She was sliding back into the passenger seat when Pitt pounded onto the dock.

  As Pitt approached, he was surprised to see the boat was an old dual cockpit runabout, built of mahogany. Had there been sufficient light, he would have recognized it as an early 1940s Chris-Craft.

  Not losing a step, Pitt crossed the dock and leaped into the rear cockpit. He bounded off the cushion and vaulted into the front pilot’s seat, jamming down the boat’s throttle. As he fell into the seat, the old boat charged away from the dock with a bellow from its vintage six-cylinder Chrysler engine.

  “This was fast thinking,” he told Ann as he guided the boat away from shore.

  “I was afraid you’d never make it out of there.”

  He looked back at the dock to see the dark figure of the lead gunman charge onto the platform.

  “Better get down!” Pitt yelled, spinning the wheel hard over.

  The cockpit floor was spacious enough for both of them and they ducked beneath the cowl as the boat jutted left. Pitt reached up and eased back the wheel, letting the boat run blindly ahead.

  His move had turned the boat parallel to shore as it sped across the lake, its occupants hidden from view. The gunman ran to the end of the dock and aimed at the pilotless craft, firing until his clip was empty.

  The roar of the engine drowned out the gunshots, but Pitt detected several faint thumps when a few rounds struck the hull. He waited a minute, then popped his head up for a quick look. The dock was lost from view among the trees as the boat skittered toward shore. Pitt slid into the seat and bumped the wheel over to keep them in deep water. Once on course, he pulled Ann up beside him. With all focus on their escape, he had ignored the throbbing pain in his leg, and the sticky wetness that told him he was now bleeding.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “That was a little too close for comfort.”

  “It would have been even closer if I hadn’t had your crutch handy. Sorry to leave you off balance.”

  “I was so scared, I didn’t even think about my ankle. I just saw it was downhill to the dock and remembered I had the house keys in my pocket
. Fortunately, the boat keys were also attached.”

  She unconsciously rubbed her ankle, now noticing the pain.

  “Where to now?” she asked.

  The wheels of justice had already been turning in Pitt’s mind. “Simple,” he said. “We head them off at the pass.”

  There was only one road out from Heiland’s cabin. Pitt knew the thieves would have to pass through Bayview to escape with the stolen documents. They could be stopped, but only if he and Ann got there first. It was a race that would depend on a seventy-year-old boat.

  Though long in the tooth, Heiland’s Chris-Craft was no turtle. The Custom Runabout was fitted with the company’s Model M engine, which churned out 130 horsepower. The old speedboat was as stylish as she was speedy, featuring a varnished mahogany finish, dual cockpits, and a rakish “barrelback” stern. A desirable boat when it had left the Algonac, Michigan, factory in 1942, it was now a prized collectible for classic boat lovers.

  The elegant boat cut easily through the waves as Pitt kept the throttle down, mustering full speed from its inboard engine. Although they had a healthy head start, Pitt knew the gunmen would be desperate to escape and could travel the road back at nearly twice the boat’s speed.

  A star-filled sky gave him ample light, and he nudged the boat near the shoreline to trim the distance. After a few minutes of hard running, a wide inlet appeared on Pitt’s left, and he angled the boat into it. The lights of Bayview appeared off the bow, twinkling at the far end of the aptly named Scenic Bay. Pitt glanced toward the shoreline road but didn’t spot any headlights.

  “How do we stop them?” Ann shouted.

  Pitt had been ruminating on that question since they had cleared the dock. Sitting weaponless in a seventy-year-old boat with a woman who could barely walk did not give rise to many options. The obvious course of action would be to storm into the Navy facility and request help. But such an assault would more likely get them shot or arrested than gain them immediate assistance. Peering ahead, he spotted a marina dock close to the lab’s fenced security entrance. The road from Heiland’s cabin intersected the town’s main street just a short distance away. He pointed out the dock to Ann.