The Hunt (aka 27)

  Keegan grabbed Dryman under the arms and dragged him through the water, fighting the wind as the flames lapped across the belly of the shattered plane, hit the gasoline and exploded. Keegan shoved Dryman into the marsh and fell across his body as the craft was totally ripped apart by the explosion. Bits and pieces splashed around them. A ball of fire swirled up into the gale and just as quickly was snuffed out.

  Keegan rolled off Dryman, struggled to his knees and cradled him in his arms. There was a deep gash in Dryman's forehead and his leg was twisted grotesquely.

  "H.P.!" he yelled.

  Dryman groaned, squinted up through the rain at Keegan. "Are we alive?" he stammered.

  "Just about."

  "How about Loop's plane?"

  "Forget it."

  Dryman smiled, then flinched with pain. "Good landing," he groaned. "We walked away from it."

  Through the howling wind, Keegan heard an engine groaning, then saw headlights. A truck lurched down a muddy road and stopped at the edge of the marsh. The driver opened the door and leaned out into the rain.

  "Anybody alive?" he yelled.

  "Yeah, but we can use some help," Keegan yelled back. He stood up and got Dryman up on one leg. Together they struggled through the marsh toward the truck.

  "Man, what a mess," the driver said, looking at what was left of Loop Garrison's PT-17.

  The clinic was a one-story brick building with two offices, a lab, two examining rooms, a waiting room and two recovery rooms with adjoining bathrooms. Keegan used one of the washrooms to clean up while the doctor, a short, cheerful man named Ben Galloway, worked on Dryman. Keegan stared at himself in the mirror. His clothes were wet and muddy. One knee was torn out of his pants and there was a splash of Dryman's blood on his shoulder. But he was uninjured except for a few bruises.

  He used a towel to wipe off his clothes, tried to straighten up before he went back to the waiting room. The truck driver who had picked him up was gone but there was a tall, lanky man in his late twenties sitting in the room, nervously smoking a cigarette. He looked up as Keegan came back in the room.

  "You okay?" he said.

  "I'm fine."

  "Never knew anybody to walk away from an airplane crash."

  "I had a good pilot."

  "That him in there?" he asked, jerking a thumb toward the examining room.

  Keegan nodded.

  "How's he doing?"

  "I don't know."

  "Old Ben's a good doctor. He'll be okay. Name's Tommy Smoot. Wife just had a little baby boy. I was in with her when you came in."

  "Congratulations," Keegan said, shaking his hand. "I'm Frank."

  "Where you headed?"

  "Brunswick. Actually Jekyll Island. You familiar with it?"

  "Sure. I work at the shipyard down there."

  "You know anybody with a boat? I need to get out to that island."

  "What, tonight?"

  "As soon as possible."

  "How you gonna get to Brunswick?"

  "Be damned if I know. I don't suppose there's a taxicab anywhere around here?"

  Smoot laughed heartily. "A taxicab? Hell, I don't think most folks around here ever even heard of a taxicab. Why you goin' out to Jekyll?"

  "I have a very important appointment."

  Smoot thought for a moment, then said, "Well, the rain's slacked off some, but there's another storm comin' in right behind that last one. Look, Doc wants my wife to spend the night here. If it's real important, I'll run you down to Brunswick."

  "Mr. Smoot, I guarantee you, it is most important."

  "Well, then, it's done. Only take us half an hour to get down there. But findin' a boat, I'll have to give that some thought."

  Dr. Galloway came out of the office wiping his hands on a striped beach towel. He was a gentle man, gentle in attitude and voice.

  "Well, you're lucky, suh," he said softly. "The clinic was closed for the holiday but Lucy Ann's little boy couldn't wait until tomorrow."

  "I can't tell you how grateful I am."

  "Why, I'm just glad I was here, Mr. Keegan."

  "We were lucky all the way around," Keegan said. "Truck happened to see us go down. Dryman in there, got us into a marsh, otherwise we'd have both bought the farm. How is he?"

  "Broken ankle. Two broken ribs. Concussion. Ribs didn't puncture anything. Simple fractures. We got him fixed up just fine. He'll be a bit sore for a while."

  "Can I talk to him?"

  "Yes, suh, but I gave him a sedative. He'll be passing out soon. Better hurry on in there."

  Keegan entered the small recovery room. Dryman was stretched out under a sheet, his head bound in bandages.

  "H.P., can you hear me?" Keegan said, leaning over him.

  Dryman's eyes fluttered. "Huh?" he asked dreamily.

  "It's me, Keegan. Can you hear me?"

  "Why? R'you in China?"

  Keegan laughed. "No," he said. "We're in Darien, Georgia."

  "Darien, huh . . . how far?"

  "About fifteen miles from Brunswick. I've got a ride down there. You're going to be okay, pal. Just take it easy. I'll be back when I finish the job."

  Dryman's eyes roved crazily in their sockets as he tried to focus.

  "Feel great, Kee."

  "Yeah, the doctor gave you a little boost."

  "H‘bout th' plane? We lose th' plane?"

  "You did great. The plane didn't make it."

  He grimaced. "Aw, shit . . . poor ol' Loop . . ."

  "Don't worry about the plane, okay? We'll get him a new plane. You just take it easy."

  Dryman closed one eye and tried to focus with the other.

  "Wha‘sa matter w'me?" he asked, his speech getting more slurred with each sentence.

  "Broken leg, couple cracked ribs. You'll be fine, H.P. I'll be back before you wake up."

  "Won't groun' me wi'they?"

  "Over my dead body."

  Dryman smiled and focused groggily on Keegan. "Do'n say that . . ."

  They both laughed.

  "I gotta go now, pal," Keegan said. "Take a nap. I'll be here when you wake up."

  "Kee . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  ". . . careful, ‘kay? Watch y'back door . . ."

  "You bet."

  "Sorry . . ."

  And he dozed off.

  Rain began to pelt Smoot's two-door Chevy as they reached the outskirts of Brunswick. The only light came from the headlights reflecting off the macadam pavement. Keegan checked the time. It was quarter to seven.

  "The only man I know crazy enough to go over to Jekyll on a night like this is Tully Moyes," Smoot said. "He's a shrimper, lives out on the marsh. But the road may be underwater."

  "Get me as close as you can to his place and point me," Keegan said. He reached in his pocket and took out a roll of bills, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and folded them into the palm of his hand. In the blue light of the lightning, Keegan saw a vast marsh spread before them. A two-story house seemed to be brooding at the edge of the bay off to their right. Beyond it, across the sound, Jekyll Island crouched in the dark. The tide was up and the narrow dirt road leading to the house was beginning to flood. The Chevy began to fishtail.

  "Let me out here, Tommy. I can walk the rest of the way. You don't want to be stuck out here in the marsh with a new baby waiting for you. I can't thank you enough."

  "Southern hospitality, Frank. God was good to me tonight, I'm just passing it on."

  They shook hands and Keegan pressed the bills into Smoot's fist. The young man looked down at them and began to shake his head.

  "Tommy, believe me, you've done a lot of people a great service tonight. The baby's on me. Thanks."

  He slammed the door and sloughed up the muddy road toward Tully Moyes's house. It was a rambling shed at the edge of the bay with a wooden walkway from the end of the road to a balcony that surrounded the first floor. Crab traps, fishing nets and loops of heavy ropes hung from the banister. Keegan knocked on the door and it was
opened almost immediately by a tall, slender, weather-hardened man with a gray beard and thinning hair. He stared out at Keegan, a drowned rat huddled against the rain.

  "Mr. Moyes?" Keegan said. "My name's Frank Keegan. I'm with the U.S. Intelligence Service. Can I talk to you?"

  Moyes looked him up and down.

  "You're one hell of a mess, Mr. Keegan," Moyes said. "Step in. You got some identification?"

  "Mr. Moyes, all I've got's the craziest story you ever heard and one hell of a favor to ask."

  FIFTY-TWO

  Laughing heartily, Moyes brought a bottle of brandy into the living room, put two water tumblers on the table and filled them both.

  "So you waded all the way out here in this storm to tell me that cock-and-bull story?" he said, still laughing. He held his glass in a toast. "Here's to audacity, sir, which you certainly got your share of."

  The living room was a clutter of old photographs, fishing gear, mismatched furniture and bric-a-brac. There were several pictures of a boy in various stages of growing up, the last one showing him in cap and gown at what was obviously a high school graduation. There were also several photos of a hardy-looking woman. But the room gave no indication that either of them occupied the house.

  Outside the windows, the bay was churning up as the storm descended on them again. Rain clattered against windows and walls.

  "Mr. Moyes . . ."

  "Tully."

  "Tully, I know my story sounds outrageous but believe me, it's true. I came out here because Tom Smoot said you're just crazy enough to take me over to Jekyll Island."

  "In this storm?"

  "Right now."

  "You can't be serious."

  "I've never been more serious about anything in my life. If you won't do it, can you call somebody who can?"

  "Nope," the lean man said, scratching his beard.

  "Why not?"

  "Phones are out. Been out for a couple hours now. Couldn't call anybody if I wanted to. Besides, if I was to call anybody it'd be the Coast Guard. They wouldn't believe you, but at least they wouldn't laugh at me. No sir, we can't call anybody and you can't walk back to town. It's over two miles and by now the water's up to your knees out there."

  "Tully, I'm going over to that island if I have to swim over."

  "Look, Mr. Keegan, I'm eatin' my Thanksgiving dinner. Me and Chelsea . . ."

  He pointed to a black lab curled before the fireplace. It stared soulfully up at both of them, snorted and went back to sleep.

  "Tully, you get me on the island over there and I'll take you to New York and buy you the best turkey dinner you ever ate."

  "I'm eatin' king mackerel, Mister . . . what'd you say your name was again . . . ?"

  "Frank. Frank Keegan."

  ". . . Frank. I don't eat anything that has feathers on it and flies through the air."

  "Well, whatever you want. Christ, I'll buy you a year's supply of king mackerel. Here, look . . ."

  He took out his money clip and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills and slapped them on the coffee table.

  "Is that serious enough for you?"

  Moyes perused the bills, separated them with a forefinger.

  "That's a thousand dollars!"

  "You're right."

  "You offering me a thousand dollars to take you right over there?" He jabbed his thumb toward Jekyll Island.

  Keegan nodded.

  "Government must pay you boys pretty well." He took another swig of brandy, then got up and threw a log on the fire.

  "Y‘know, my son died on a night like this. Playing tug-of-war out in the sound. Kids'd get arguing over whose shrimp boat was toughest, tie two of 'em back to back and then see which one would tow the other. Kind of like playin' chicken in cars."

  He walked to the window, leaned over and peered through a brass telescope. He aimed it at Jekyll and waited for lightning to light up the bay.

  "Be almost four years ago. Night they graduated from high school, him and his buddy Jimmy Wertz, they had a couple of beers, got challenging each other. So they went at it."

  He kept staring through the glass. Seas were running two feet, he estimated. Not bad. Wind was probably twenty-five knots.

  "Seas were running about two feet just like they are out there now. Jimmy pulled Ray's stern under. She flooded from the stern and tipped over. Ray was trapped in the cabin. He floated up on King's Way Beach two days later. The boat's still down there. Ninety feet down on the bottom of the channel."

  He walked back to the table and washed down the rest of his brandy.

  "My wife died last year. She never got over that night. Wouldn't eat worth a damn. Just kind of wasted away. I think she really died of a broken heart. We were married twenty-six years."

  "I'm sorry," Keegan said. "I know what it is to lose someone you love. My fiancee was put in a concentration camp by the Nazis. She died there."

  Moyes did not respond but his face clouded up. He stared across the table at Keegan.

  "I found out about this Nazi agent, Twenty-seven, from her brother. He's head of the resistance movement in Germany. At first nobody'd believe me. Thought I was nuts, just like you did. But I knew he wouldn't bullshit me."

  He explained how they had turned up Fred Dempsey and later Trexler in Colorado and described the scene in the murdered family's home.

  "Look at it this way, Mr. Moyes. If I am telling the truth, what better time to kidnap these people than now? It's a holiday. Everything's closed. It couldn't be any darker. And this guy has been on that island since Saturday or Sunday . . ."

  "Monday morning. Saw 'em go over . . ."

  "Okay, since Monday morning. Point is, he's not going to wait all winter to take these people. He's going to do it quick . . . and he's already been over there four days."

  He finished his drink. Moyes stared at him for a long time without speaking, then poured him another stout brandy.

  "Thanks, I've had enough," Keegan said.

  "Drink it, you'll need it. It's less than a mile over there but it's gonna be a tough, wet ride."

  "You mean we have a deal?"

  "You know anything about runnin' a boat?"

  "Not that kind."

  "You know port from starboard?"

  "That I do know."

  "Well . . ." He scooped up the ten bills. "It wasn't gonna be much of a Thanksgiving dinner anyway. Besides, this'll be a lot easier than shrimpin' and a helluva lot more lucrative."

  In the dining room of the spired clubhouse, the women arrived in their formal dresses, the men in tuxedos and tails. It was going to be a gala feast and the mood was cheerful, despite the raging storm.

  "Part of island life," Grant Peabody joked as they scurried through the rain and sought the refuge of the wide piazza that surrounded the clubhouse.

  Twenty-seven watched them from a dark cluster of trees. At his feet lay one of the guards, his heart pierced by 27's SS dagger. Another guard was floating face-down in the inlet, his throat cut. The third guard was making his rounds. Huddled against the storm, he trotted from one cottage to the next, cursing the foul weather. He was hungry and looking forward to dinner. The guards would be fed after the others were finished. He finally found a moment's shelter in the radio shack.

  In the flickering flashes of lightning, he and the radio operator saw a man staring through the rain-specked window. He entered the radio shack.

  "You gave us a start there, sir," the guard said. "Looked like a ghost starin' through the window."

  The man who was calling himself Allenbee smiled.

  "I am a ghost," he said, and they all laughed.

  "Expecting a message?" the radioman asked without looking up. "I'll tell you, sir, the reception is mighty poor and . . ."

  Twenty-seven leaned over the radio operator from behind, placed the palm of one hand under his chin, the other hand on the top of his head and snapped his neck. The guard, completely taken by surprise, stared open-mouthed at Allenbee as he let the radio operator's head f
all on the desk. Allenbee's arm made a short upward stroke as he thrust his dagger up under the guard's rib cage, slicing deep into his chest.

  The guard's head fell forward onto Allenbee's shoulder and the Nazi agent shoved him away. He fell dead at Allenbee's feet.

  Allenbee dismantled the radio, then rushed across the compound to the telephone room. It was empty, the phones having been out for hours. He cut all the phone lines just to make sure, then stepped inside the small room, checked the clips in his machine pistol and his .38. He looked at his watch.

  It was seven-twenty. Perfect timing. He rushed back to the clubhouse, looked in the window just as the kitchen and maid staffs were herded into the room. Lady Penelope entered with a birthday cake ablaze with candles. She walked to the front of the room. Allenbee walked around to the front of the dining room and entered through one of the French doors that lined one side of the room.

  The guests looked at him with surprise. He was wet to the skin, his hair streaked down over his forehead. He looked like a wraith.

  "Good grief, what happened to you?" Peabody asked.

  Allenbee drew the machine pistol and fired a burst into the ceiling. A stream of plaster splashed on the floor at his feet. There was a chorus of screams. The men looked at Allenbee in shock.

  "Everybody shut up!" Allenbee ordered but there was chaos in the room. He aimed the gun at the main chandelier and fired a burst into it. Crystal exploded. The bullets tore through the bracket anchoring the enormous light and it fell straight from the ceiling, crashing into a table.

  "I said shut up!" Allenbee ordered.

  The room got quiet.

  "See here! What in hell do you think you're doing?" Peabody demanded.

  Allenbee glared at him and pointed the machine pistol straight at his chest.

  "Sit down, Peabody, or I'll kill you where you stand," Allenbee said in a voice that meant business.

  Captain Leiger held the sub at ten meters, its conning tower just below the surface, and watched the St. Simons light spin slowly around, casting its long finger of light across the dark, rain-swept channel. He inched the sub around the northeast tip of Jekyll Island and entered the deep channel.