THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) (12 page)

CHAPTER 19 - DOGGED PURSUIT

A United States Postal Service truck pulled into the cul-de-sac and the woman driver began stopping at every house. All the homes in the upscale neighborhood had ornate mailboxes on posts at the end of their driveways. Some looked like little fire houses or windmills. One looked like a doghouse. The strangest one looked like a bird feeder, and Scarne wondered if some local
sparrows didn’t get confused.

The mailbox in front of Michael Burke’s house looked like a mailbox. It was the only box the postal truck bypassed. Scarne didn’t think that was a statement on its drabness. He’d been watching the house on and off for hours. The lack of a mail delivery was just another indication that either the home was vacant, or the Burke family was away.

Scarne had already moved his car several times so as not to attract notice. Lexington, one of the better suburbs surrounding Columbus, SC, looked like the type of neighborhood where strangers would stand out. Now, he was parked just down the street from Burke’s house, a two-story, all-brick Colonial at the very end of the cul-de-sac.

Women began leaving their homes in minivans. Scarne made sure to move his rental car again. Within the hour the minivans started returning to their nests, full of schoolchildren. Several of the vans had window stickers from nearby Fort Jackson, the sprawling military base where most Army troops get their initial basic training. Scarne wondered if that was where Michael Burke began his military career.

In all the time he watched, no one went in or out of Burke’s house. By 6 P.M., Scarne was hungry and bone tired. The almost 20-hour trip from Honolulu to Columbia had involved stops in Phoenix and Charlotte, and two weather delays. If anyone had been following me the past few days, he thought, they’ll probably die of exhaustion, if the airline food didn’t get them. He left the block and drove to a nearby Denny’s, where he used the bathroom and ordered coffee and a burger to take out. He thought the burger was delicious, but he knew his frame of reference had been degraded by the rotten meals he’d been eating.

When he got back to the block, nothing had apparently changed. The Burke house still looked unoccupied. Scarne decided to break in while there was still enough daylight so he might not have to turn on a light or use a flashlight in the house. 

The house had an expansive rear yard that ran back to a wooded area leading down to a small stream. It was a simple enough matter for Scarne to drive out of the neighborhood and find a spot on a road near the woods where he could walk down to the stream. From there he followed the stream bank and cut through the woods to the Burke house, past a large work shed on the property. He was confident he was not visible from the other houses on the cul-de-sac as long as he stayed in the rear of the house.

The house was alarmed, as Scarne expected the home of a professional assassin would be. He spotted the wires in the windows and doors almost immediately.  The security system was probably run through an AC transformer that converted power to a 16-volt panel. He found the transformer behind the rear deck. If he unplugged it, the next step would be to find the alarm panel box, which is usually just inside the front door.  He’d have to pull the wires that went to the backup battery. The unit would be disabled. But that might only give him 10 minutes, or less, before the police showed up after being notified by whatever private alarm company was monitoring the power.

Scarne was about to take his chances when he saw the pet door in the back door of the home. The opening was much too small for a man to squeeze through, but the door was made of wood and it gave him an idea. He went to the work shed and emerged a few minutes later with a small jigsaw and an extension cord, which he plugged into an outdoor outlet. He started cutting around the dog door. He wasn’t worried about running into a Doberman inside the house. No canine worth its salt would remain silent while someone was carving out its dog door. Within ten minutes, Scarne had enlarged the perimeter around the dog door to man-size, careful not to cut to the bottom of the door where alarm wires might be rooted. When finished, he pulled the dog door out easily. Setting it aside, he crawled into the house, landing rather unceremoniously on the kitchen floor. He was pretty sure Fido’s entrance would have been more graceful.

  Scarne did a quick reconnoiter of the house. Dining room, living room, two-story great room downstairs. He went up a wrought-iron stairwell and went through all four bedrooms. There was nothing that told him where Burke was. Back in the kitchen he spotted a small pile of catalogs on the kitchen counter: Talbot’s, Land’s End, Chico’s, Brooks Brothers. All were addressed to “Lucy Burke.” There was a calendar on the refrigerator,
surrounded by pictures and various notes and business cards held up by magnets. Most of the photos were of two toddlers, twins by the look of them. No wonder Burke knew how to take care of a baby, Scarne mused. There was also a picture of Burke, arms around an attractive brunette, outdoors at what appeared to be a barbecue. Unless he had a very understanding wife, that was Lucy. Looking at the family photos, Scarne got a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The current week on the calendar had been marked off, Saturday to Saturday, and a feminine hand, presumably Lucy’s, had written “Savannah” in the Saturday and Sunday date boxes, “Charleston” in the next two days and “Isle of Palms” in the rest. Scarne smiled. That explained it; the Burke family was on nice little seaside vacation. They’d remembered to stop the mail. 

It was now Wednesday. That meant the Isle of Palms. But where? Using his iPhone, Scarne looked up the area code for Isle of Palms, which was 843. He then went back to the home phone and checked its past-call list. Sure enough, there were several calls with the same 843 extension. He dialed it and got a recorded woman’s voice: “Hello, you have reached Fogelson Realty, specialists in Isle of Palms sales and rentals. We are currently closed …” Scarne listened while the woman gave the office hours. Then he hung up.

Scarne wiped down everything he touched in the house and then crawled back out through the dog door, praying that there wasn’t a cop waiting for him. Legal considerations aside, he’d never live it down. He replaced the dog door as best he could,
though he knew the damage wouldn’t pass a close inspection. He wiped down and replaced the jigsaw and cord to the shed. Then he walked down to the stream. It was getting dark but he managed to find his way back to his car. He decided that he’d earned a good dinner. He went back to the motel he was staying at near the airport and showered. The desk clerk recommended a restaurant called The Motor Supply Company. Expecting a truck stop, Scarne’s wound up eating one of the best T-bone steaks he’d ever had in a trendy hot spot he almost didn’t get into because he lacked a reservation. The steak and a good bottle of Pinot Noir almost made him forget that two hours earlier he had imitated a German Shepherd.  

CHAPTER 20 - ISLE OF PALMS

After drinking lukewarm coffee and eating cardboard masquerading as a bagel at a motel buffet, Scarne was on the road by 7 A.M. the next morning for the two-hour drive to Isle of Palms.

The small barrier island is located just north of Charleston on the South Carolina coast. Just prior to crossing the Intercoastal Waterway that separated it and adjacent Sullivan’s Island from the mainland, Scarne stopped at a Walmart and bought a prepaid cell phone. 

The large homes and seaside businesses on Isle of Palms reminded Scarne of Long Beach Island in New Jersey — or at least the Long Beach Island he knew before Hurricane Sandy rearranged the topography. Fogelson Realty was located on Ocean Boulevard between a clothing boutique and a pizza parlor. Scarne had no intention of showing his face there if he could help it. He drove by the office and a block later pulled into a parking space outside a busy beach-front restaurant called the Windjammer.

The restaurant had a rooftop deck for dining that could be accessed by an exterior wooden staircase. Scarne went up and sat at a bench table near the rail. It was almost 2 P.M. and he was hungry. A waitress came over to his table and he ordered fish and chips and an iced tea. He could hear shouting and cheers from the beach below. Looking over the rail he could see a spirited women’s volleyball match in the sand below. A ketchup-stained brochure in the salt-and-pepper caddy on his table explained that the Windjammer was “famous” for its summertime volleyball tournaments, which attracted both amateur and professional teams from all over the East Coast.

Even though it was
well after Labor Day, the current match had lured a decent crowd, mostly male, probably because it was still warm enough for the players to wear bikinis. The women weren’t there just for show, however. They were athletic and quick. Some of their violent spikes elicited appreciative roars from the onlookers. 

After lunch, Scarne called Fogelson Realty, using the prepaid phone. He told the woman who answered that he was interested in a vacation home, and was almost immediately asked to hold for “Mr. Fogelson.”
This time of year, business was probably slow for local realty agents and any call was a bonus. The waitress came by and refilled his iced tea.

“Dave Fogelson. How can I help you?”

“Name’s Harper. Louis Harper. I’m over in Charleston on business but an old Army buddy of mine says I should take a look-see at this place. He says he loves it here.”

“When are you planning to rent?”

“Who said anything about renting? I’m retiring in three months. I’m looking to buy a vacation home. You do sales, don’t you?”

“Of course. That’s the bulk of our business. We represent the finest properties on the island.”

Scarne thought he could hear the man salivating.

“My pal
told me he likes doin’ business with you, Dave. Said I should mention his name. Burke. Michael Burke.”

“The Burkes? Why, they’re here now.”

“Get outa town! How about that! Haven’t seen the son of a bitch in a couple of years, since me and the missus moved from Atlanta. My Adelaide was thick as thieves with Lucy. Now all Mike and I do is Twitter and email.” Scarne listened for a moment. “Yes. Yes. Lucy sure is somethin’, ain’t she? Never know she had twins.” Scarne hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thick. He hoped the photo on the refrigerator in the Burke’s Columbia home was fairly recent and did Lucy Burke justice. For all he knew, she might look like the fridge now.

“Yes,” the agent said, “she sure has kept her figure.”

“Listen, Mr. Fogelson, I can’t pass this up. I just have to go over and surprise them. Is there a decent liquor store around? I want to buy some wine. Give me their address and me and Mike will stop by tomorrow to see you. I’ll feel better with him helping me out. If I’m going to get a place I want to pick his brains. I wasn’t planning to stay over, but no way I’m driving back to Charleston with a snootfull. They’ll give me a couch, or somethin’. In the meantime, could you put together some ideas for me. Nothin’ too outrageous. I wouldn’t want to go over a mil. That doable?” Scarne listened some more. “No kidding? Place must be hot. But how does all cash sound to you?” There was a pause. “Yeah. Thought it might. How about me and Mike come by your office around this time? O.K. See you then, Dave.”

***

The Burke rental, a two-story stand-alone building, was a block in from the beach on Joe Long Boulevard across from a fire station and next to a small combination country store and cafe where several people sat at tables on a porch. Scarne pulled into a lot next to a bait-and-tackle store where he had a clear view of the house. The roof of the house had a railing and he could just barely see the tip of a large awning. The garage door was open. There were fishing rods stacked up against the wall in the two-car garage, which was otherwise empty. There was no activity; the place looked empty. He debated going inside and surprising Burke when he got back, but decided against it. He probably would be returning with his family and Scarne had no desire to confront him then. He would sit and await developments.

Two hours later a blue minivan pulled into the driveway. Burke and his wife got out. The woman, who had indeed kept her figure, herded two toddlers into the garage as her husband unloaded the van, making several trips into the house with beach paraph
ernalia and shopping bags. Michael Burke looked like every other harried father on earth. Within a half hour Scarne could smell hot dogs and burgers being grilled. Burke appeared at the rail on the roof holding a spatula in one hand and a beer in another. Scarne took the opportunity to walk to the country store, where he ordered a large black coffee and a ham sandwich to go. Then he went back to his car and resumed his surveillance. He would give the Burkes time to put the kids to bed and then he’d just have to go knock on the door and take his chances. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but he didn’t know what else to do.

An hour later Burke, still wearing his bathing suit and T-shirt, came out of the garage holding a long surfcasting rod and other fishing equipment, which he loaded into his van. He backed out and drove across the street, pulling up in front of the tackle shop. He went in and a minute later walked out holding a small plastic bag. Bait.

Scarne followed him when he pulled away. Burke drove along Ocean Boulevard and stopped at a deserted stretch of beach about a mile from his house. He unloaded his gear and walked through a cut in dunes. It was dusk. Scarne gave him a minute and then followed, stopping at the cut. Burke walked to the water’s edge and began to set up his little fishing station, plunging a rod holder into the sand. Scarne looked up and down the beach. There were only a few fishermen and they were spread far apart. The hit man had a long stretch of sand all to himself. When the sun went down, it was unlikely anyone else on the beach would be able to see him.

That presented a problem. A lone man on a dark beach would be easy to approach, but natural instincts built up over a million years would make him wary. And this particular man, who lived a hard and dangerous life, would be particularly alert to anything out of the ordinary. He would probably be armed, or at least have a weapon handy.

Scarne kicked himself mentally. He should have been better prepared. He looked at his watch. There might still be time. He went back to his car and drove back to the bait and tackle shop, hoping it was still open. It was. 

“I’d like to rent some fishing gear.”

The kid behind the counter looked up from his iPad. He had tattoos running down his left arm.

“Be $20 a day, plus a $50 deposit.”

Scarne didn’t want anyone remembering that he didn’t return his gear.

“Well, you know I’m going to be here a few days, then head up to the Outer Banks. Might as well buy the damn stuff. What do you suggest?”

“Gonna fish the bay or surf?”

“Surf.”

“What are you after?”

“What’s out there?”

“This time of year your best bet is sea trout. Probably get some croakers and whiting, too. Guy just in here said he’s been catching the occasional bluefish or King Mackerel. And don’t be surprised when you pull in a shark. They’re all over the place. Mostly sand sharks. But sometimes you’ll hook a juvenile black-tip. Nothing big. But they put up a nice scrap. How about I fix you up with a medium rod and 20-pound-test monofilament line? I hear the surf is pretty rough today, so you’ll probably need some five-ounce sinkers.”

“Great. How long will this take? Sun’s going down.”

“Got some stuff over there that’s ready to go. Line is already in the reels and everything. Save you some money, too.”

The store also sold fishing apparel, so while the kid put together his order, Scarne picked out a cap, shorts, a T-Shirt, some Ho-Chi-Minh sandals and a bulky fisherman’s vest. Then he grabbed a rod holder and a bucket.

“Man, you’re ready for anything,” the clerk said as Scarne piled his purchases on the counter.

He couldn’t believe how much stuff the guy was buying. Well, he didn’t look like he cared, so why should he? Hell, he didn’t look much like a fisherman, either. Tough-looking bastard. But a sale is a sale, and he didn’t get many like this one.

“Hold on a sec,” the clerk said.

He walked over to a large glass-fronted, double-door freezer and took out plastic bag, which he added to Scarne’s order.

“Bait shrimp. On the house. They’ll thaw by the time you get to the beach. Good night to fish. It’s high tide in an hour.”

Scarne paid cash and thanked him. The clerk smiled at his back as he walked out. It had been his biggest sale of the week. The boss would be happy. Maybe he’d change his mind about cutting back on his hours. He began to mentally frame how he would embellish the sale. Guy came in to rent a rod and I talked him into buying half the store.

Scarne drove back to the spot where Burke’s van was. He quickly changed, and feeling fairly ridiculous, walked out to the beach. The vest hid his gun nicely. It was getting dark. There was a full moon. He again scanned the beach. Even in the moonlight, he was confident no one would see what he was doing. He walked down to where Burke was standing in the surf up to his knees. The man saw him approach.

“
What are you catching?” Scarne said.

“Pneumonia.”

Scarne laughed. It had gotten noticeably chillier in the past hour.

“Pretty good spot just down the beach,” Burke said, turning back to face the ocean.

It was a not-too-subtle hint that he wanted this stretch of the beach all to himself.

“What should I go after?”

Burke looked at Scarne’s over-the-top outfit and equipment and smiled.

“How about Moby Dick?”

Scarne laughed again and s
tuck his rod holder and pole in the sand and put down his bucket.

Burke sighed. Two thousand miles of shoreline and this jerk …

“I’m after bigger fish,” Scarne said. “Or rather, a bigger dick.”

Burke turned.
His smile vanished as his eyes drifted down to the Bersa now pointed at his midsection.