North by Northeast Page 5

  In the silence behind him, others waited. Hamish turned back to face his three friends. "I have made me choice. Lori is mine. If I must kill tae keep her, I will. But tha lot of ye, ye need tae get out of here. I know who I'm after. I can go it alone."

  Glen slammed his open hand on the table. "Oh, shut tha fuck up! Stuff the nobility! You and Lori stood up for Francie and me when it counted. Do you think I can do any less? The only reason I have a life with Francie and the boy is because you two made it happen."

  Thud shook his head. "Ah, tha Head Master is at it again. Sorry, boyo, but ye're stuck with us."

  "And I third it, MacGrough. We're all sticking with you. In case you didn't just get the message, I've been a bad boy in my youth. There's a lot of shit under my bridge. If I can put all the bad knowledge to good use, it might put me on a better footing with the Guy Upstairs." Lurch stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. The grin he wore wasn't friendly.

  Thud sat on the arm of the sofa. "As ye are the most devious of tha lot of us, MacGrough, I vote ye mastermind here."

  Glen laughed. "H.M. is definitely the mastermind. That convoluted brain of his comes up with stuff so far beyond anything I can even conceive, it's laughable."

  "Yep, he's it." Lurch nodded in agreement.

  For a moment Hamish glanced around at the men gathered around him. They were a good crew. He took a deep breath. "First thing we're doin is cuttin Warren out entirely. He's vulnerable. I vote we go mobile. We need tae acquire ah big vehicle an get out of tha hotel. 'Tis ah bloody wonder the media hasn't caught on tae us yet."

  Hamish looked at Thud. "Thud, grab the beer, scotch and sandwiches. Dinna bother with tha ginger. Glen, ye grab all tha paperwork, leave nae ah wee scrap behind. Lurch, we need tae get ah vehicle without ah credit card. I'm gonnae need the ATM machine. Mayhap we need tae buy something nae from ah dealer. Something with a current license, mind?"

  Hamish leaned down. Surreptitiously, he rubbed his hand down the side of his boot. They would need more than one knife. Guns weren't his weapon of choice, and he had little experience with them. Lurch probably was their expert in that sector. But there might be another option.

  "Thud, do ye have any relatives experienced with explosives?"

  Thud grinned at Hamish. "Aw, now, is the Pope Catholic? I'm an Ulster Catholic lad, mind?"

  Hamish raised one eyebrow. "Do ye need tae call anyone for information on the matter?"

  "Nay, boyo, I had some interesting jobs when I was ah wee lad. 'Tis ah bit tricky, mind? But I remember the basics."

  Lurch laughed. "I like things that go 'boom.' This might be fun. We can pick up a few items to equalize matters. Let's stop at a sporting goods store and buy two or three Very pistols. We can blow stuff up and eliminate threats with them."

  Glen rose and bent over to gather up the papers from the coffee table. His blond hair fell into his eyes. "Am I the only one around here who was a good kid? All I ever did was a little shoplifting," he grumbled.

  Hamish smiled slightly. "Consider yourself lucky, Glen. This is your chance to find out how it feels. Ye may not like it. If ye want tae rethink getting involved, now is your chance. When ye hurt others, ye get wounded as well."

  Blue eyes flashing in anger, Glen looked at Hamish. Glen was deadly serious. "This is me, Glen, you are talking to. I do know that. Spare me any more fuckin lectures. I'm in."

  Hamish understood what Glen meant. Francie, Glen's wife, had murdered Vincent Slaughter, the front man of Bushmaster in 1988. Glen, Francie and Vince's son by Francie lived in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil. As long as Francie stayed in Rio, she would never be tried for the crime. Hamish and Lori had helped to keep it all out of the media. Few people knew Francie was the guilty party.

  The woman went through a great deal of emotional pain over the murder of Vince. She’d electrocuted him because she feared for her baby, a child Vince tried to cause her to abort before Francie killed him.

  "Sorry, Glen, I want tae spare ye any more trouble if I can." Hamish shook his head.

  Thud clapped a hand down on Glen's shoulder. "It's what comes o being raised ah Presbyterian instead of ah Catholic. I get tae go tae confession, he doesnae. Ignore his flashes of uprightness. He'll get over it."

  "Feckin gobshite!" Hamish punched Thud's shoulder. The drummer had a quick tongue, and he lightened the mood in the room. A fact Hamish appreciated.

  "All right, let's get to it. Glen, please call Warren. Tell him thanks, but we're gontae be out of touch for ah wee while."

  They all went in different directions. Thud and Lurch left the room. Thud’s mission was to retrieve their bags from the other room he and Hamish were supposed to share. Lurch went down to the lobby to get a newspaper to search the sales column for a vehicle. Glen grabbed the phone to place the call to Warren.

  Hamish went to the bathroom. After locking the door and eliminating some beer, he put his foot on the toilet lid. The knife slid easily from his boot, and Hamish took it in his right fist. Several years had passed since he’d bought this particular knife. It was a well thought-out purchase, one he went to a great deal of trouble to find.

  Scots could no longer wear a sgian by Crown law. When he considered the fact that knives were the weapons of choice in Glasgow, it was reasonable. The sgian dubh had formerly paired with the sporran and kilt. Some in America still wore them at events like the Highland Games.

  Hamish had handpicked his knife as he wanted it to be more than decorative. The twisted metal around the handle served as decoration, but it also provided Hamish with a good tight grip on the knife. Even if it became wet, it would not slide out of his grasp. It fit nicely in his fist. With his hand tightly wrapped around it, he could deliver a good punch and still have the knife ready for use.

  He flipped the knife over and gripped it in his left fist. Granted, none of this would do his hands any good, but if he never played again that would be up to God. Lori Ann was worth any cost which might be required of him. Short enough to fit nicely in his boot, the blade of the knife was long enough to gut if necessary.

  Hamish took a look at his face in the mirror. His reflection stared back, drawn and pale. And something, a bleakness which had not been there since the death of his mother, hid in the depths of his eyes. When his mother died, Hamish had felt the loss keenly; he thought he was alone. When he found Lori, his life changed.

  His mother died of hard work and a broken heart. There had been nothing he could do to save her. Things for Lori would be different. She had many more years ahead of her. He intended to make sure she had time to live them out. There was no alternative.

  His secretary had not liked coming in on Sunday afternoon; too fucking bad. With as much as he paid her, he had no sympathy at all. She handed over the file he asked for with a slight grumble. Her irritation evaporated when Jerry glared at her before asking how long she had been working for him.

  The woman quickly apologized for being grumpy as she backed away toward the door. Focused on the file on his desk, with a wave of his hand he told her to wait until dismissed. Ignoring the silent woman, Jerry flipped the file open and searched for the paper he sought. On finding it, he scanned the employment application.

  Elden had listed his girlfriend as the emergency contact. Jerry scrawled the address across a legal pad, then tossed the file back to the woman who stood close to the door and silently waited. As she turned to leave the office, Jerry told her to place a call to his right-hand man, Sims.

  "Yes, Mr. Day. What can I do for you?"

  Jerry liked the deference Sims always gave him. The man knew who put the jam on his bread. "Elden Daniels has decided he no longer wants to work for me. I find it's time to terminate his contract. I think I can leave the matter to you."

  "Certainly, Mr. Day. We didn't see him when we delivered your order this morning. Perhaps he found the goods and it's procurement a little too much for him."

  Jerry tapped one finger on the desktop. "Too damn bad! The ball-less bastard sh
ould have stuck it out. When one works for me, one takes the good with the bad."

  "Understood, Mr. Day. May I have the address? I'll get on this right away."

  Sims knew when to take the initiative. It was the main reason the man had been in his employ as long as he had. Jerry gave him the address of the girlfriend with instructions to try to keep collateral damage to a minimum. There were already too many things which had gone awry with this acquisition.

  Jerry did not wish to come to the attention of the powers that be. Several people he did business with wouldn't be pleased if the authorities found out about him. If his personal affairs threatened them, they would be less than understanding. He had far too much specialized knowledge of several men who would act quickly if threatened. Things could not be allowed to go out of control any more than they already had.

  Jerry released his secretary after advising her she could take Monday off. He looked at his watch. Between Elden and the acquisition, his timetable has been severely compromised. He shut the office, locking the door behind him securely.

  With any luck, the Sunny Day would motor out of the harbor and point her bowsprit north by 4:00 p.m. Leaving the vestibule of the office building, Jerry noted the rain had ceased. With a broad smile, he nearly flew down the granite stairs out to his car. He was impatient to leave Seattle for Canadian waters.

  ***

  The motion of the ship changed. Lori felt the difference and realized they were under way. Fear settled in the pit of her stomach, right next to nausea. Where were they going? Where did he intend to take her? If she was no longer in Seattle, was there any chance of anyone finding her?

  The motion of the ship, as it motored out of the harbor, caused the churning of her stomach to take top billing. With a gulp, she rose from the bed and flew into the bathroom. Lori didn't hear the door open.

  The sound of retching resounded in the stateroom and had Jerry shaking his head. With a grimace, he backed out the door then locked it again. "Damn the woman!" he growled.

  As he stalked off down the companionway, Jerry's irritation increased. On top of it all, she was allergic to the seasick medication. The situation was seriously screwed. "How the hell am I going to get the piece?" Jerry mumbled to himself.

  He went to his stateroom to change into his boat shoes and something more comfortable. Once they reached their destination, he must give the matter a considerable amount of thought.

  He wanted — no, he must have the work from her. She was the one he’d sought in the beginning. Lori MacGrough would give him what he desired; she had no option. But he would deal with her later. She could wait.

  At the moment, his immediate concern was getting to his safe little harbor. The closeness of Seattle to the Canadian border was one of the best things about the city. The size of the small boat fleet was incalculable, and vessels from both countries frequently sailed from one to the other.

  There was so little enforcement of regulations, it was easy to skip back and forth. When you added all the islands and small bays into the mix, he could hide the schooner almost anywhere, even given the size of the Sunny Day.

  Mrs. MacGrough would be dealt with in due time. But he would be much happier when the ship crossed into Canadian waters. As he waited for that to happen, he would get comfortable and relax.

  ***

  She was shaking as she pounded on the door of the stateroom with her fists. Lori needed another soda. There must be something on the miserable ship she could keep down. Incensed, she resorted to pounding on the door with a shoe.

  "Senora! Please cease the noise. Senor Day is beside himself." Juan was wringing his hands as he stood in the doorway.

  "Big fucking deal! If the jerk hadn't kidnapped me, he wouldn't be forced to listen to it. Juan, I need something that will stay down beside soda and crackers. Unless the ass you work for is planning on starving me to death, can you get me some oatmeal with milk and sugar?"

  "Yes, Senora. Senora, are you, maybe, in family way?"

  "What makes you think that?" A cold chill feathered up her spine. Lori refused to give him that information.

  "Well, your illness," the crewman responded.

  "I get violently seasick. I don't know what your bastard boss wants with me. He is the one who took it upon himself to commit a crime, and things turned messy. Well, too damn bad! That's the way it goes."

  "Senora, I will get you the oatmeal and another soda. Do you have enough water?"

  "I do for now. Thank you for providing those things for me. But I do not thank you for the manner in which you are going along with your boss. Spare me the justifications for your actions. How would you feel if it were your wife?"

  Juan shook his head as he turned away. "It is my wife, Senora. I do know how it feels."

  Lori refused to feel sorry for Juan. She had enough to worry about at the moment. Her primary concerns were staying alive, complicated by keeping her unborn child alive. Screw anyone, or anything, else.

  The boat healed over to the side, and Lori was forced to grab the bed to steady herself. The motion of the ship changed. It ceased pounding through the waves. She realized they were sailing.

  The movement of the vessel as it sped forward in front of the wind was far easier to tolerate. Because of the layout of the stateroom, Lori was fairly sure she was in the portion of the big sailboat amidships. This was the best place to be on any yacht. A fact her kidnapper was aware of since his cabin was located in the same area.

  She knew she was on the starboard side of the ship, and it was a relatively large vessel. But Lori planned to keep her knowledge of boats to herself. The less information they got, the better.

  It was still Sunday. Lori assumed it was probably late afternoon. But someone had taken pains to cover the porthole in her cabin on the outside where she could not remove it. That had happened while she slept. Some light still bled through. There were lamps in this room, and since she was no longer chained up, she could turn them on.

  But she had no idea what direction the ship had taken on leaving the harbor. Even when she put her eye up to the tiny little seep of light coming from the porthole, all she could see was water. She hadn't decided if knowing would help her or not.

  Lori crawled back into bed. Nausea, combined with the uncertainty, was taking a toll on her strength. Another chill had her shivering. Lori pulled the covers up, wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. Until Juan brought her something to eat, she would try to rest. Tired and still slightly sick, she fell into a light doze.

  ***

  He was cradling a crystal snifter in his hand. The brandy was a welcome end to the steak Juan had prepared. Accompanied by a baked potato, the steak was sufficient. Jerry tended to dine light while underway.

  Jerry felt sufficiently relaxed to review the situation as things now stood. His top priority was dealing with Elden, and his inability to stick with a job. Now, he found it necessary to do something he had avoided for years, do business by phone from Hyder.

  It was an odd situation, getting a call in Hyder. The phones were part of the Canadian system. Normally, he had no communication with anyone when staying in the small ghost town. But he had contacted the owner of the bar several years ago. The had put a system in place for "emergency business" messages to be held there for J. Day. He was hoping the bar in Hyder would have a message for him from Sims when they finally arrived.

  He did not wish to use the system unless there was a crisis. Getting Daniels out of his hair constituted an emergency. Jerry had to acknowledge, he alone was to blame. It was something he allowed to happen by not taking measures to make sure Elden knew the score.

  Somehow, happily basking in euphoria over getting more than he had imagined from Selena, Jerry had lost focus. He’d spent far too much time enjoying his collection when he should have been paying attention to his newest employee. The typical protocol had not been followed. Jerry reflected it was one of the problems with being a hands-on businessman; he was left with no one
to blame but himself.

  Now he was faced with a sick woman. Lori MacGrough was upsetting his plans to collect another masterpiece which would be his, and his alone.

  Worse yet, she was the artist who drew him in the beginning. The first glimpse of the series she created hit him in the gut. His response had been something he could barely contain. Blood had called to blood.

  What he wanted from her would represent who he was. The painting would blend all the factors which had combined to create him. Jerry anticipated what he required from her would take time. He was prepared to give this creative endeavor whatever time was necessary as it would represent his very soul. It was imperative the original be untainted by others. He wanted no one else to see something so revealing, so personal. It was to be shared by the creator and the creation only. No one but he and the artist could truly appreciate the end product.

  Jerry wanted the painting as other men wanted a woman. It ate at him in a nearly sexual manner. When he looked at the woman puking in his stateroom, it was hard to equate this sickly female with the soul her paintings had revealed. The fire, the passion contained in the images brought to mind an Amazon, a woman dedicated enough to remove a breast, so the tissue would not interfere with pulling the bowstring.

  The small woman bringing her guts up in his bathroom was not what he had imagined. Jerry wondered if actually seeing Lori MacGrough at the Marina Del Rey show would have changed anything. All he recalled seeing were the images, not the artist. Would he have developed the obsession now gripping him if he had matched the artist to the art? As he was already committed, it was not worth wondering about now. What he did wonder about was how to display his new painting in his collection.