Chasing the Lost (2 page)

Whose exact relationship he’d never been able to figure out. But he knew Sylvie would have pointed out to him that he’d never really tried. It wasn’t like he was a font of information, himself, to the people he had in his life. Which might, he realized with a bit of sudden insight he knew Sylvie would have been proud of, have something to do with not having many people in his life.

He had childhood memories of a few people here on the island, but had been able to find only one still in his rather short list of contacts on his phone. He’d been amazed last week when he called that the old landline number still worked, but he had only gotten Erin’s answering machine. Which, truth be told, he preferred, rather than having to actually have a conversation. Chase hated phones. He’d left a brief message about the house, and when he’d be arriving, and maybe they could get a cup of coffee.

On reflection, he realized he had not left his own cell number for her to call back. Sylvie would have called that a Freudian slip, and observations like that had led to a lot of the friction between the two of them. Even great sex can’t completely oil the harshness of truth.

Chase continued through the house. There was a smaller fireplace next to the kitchen in a sitting area, this one without a hearth, but sporting a large wooden beam, which looked like it came off an old sailing vessel, as a mantel. This was no McMansion like the majority of the houses in Spanish Wells, but one of the original homes, built when the bridge was first extended from the mainland to the island. Despite the tree through the roof, Chase liked the feel. It was old, beat-up, and not in fashion.

Sort of like him.

The concrete pool had about two feet of greenish standing water in it, not inviting a dip, but perhaps a nest for a roving alligator. But there were great views of the Intracoastal and the low-country beyond, and a decaying, 240-foot long fixed dock ending with a metal gangway down to a decrepit floating dock. Chase noted that the neighbors on either side had large boatlifts at the end of their docks, cabin cruisers nestled in them. No boatlift on his dock, just lots of bird shit covering the warped wooden planks.

He was still slightly on edge from the encounter with his neighbor, so he went right to work on setting up his workout equipment: a battered heavy bag that had seen better days, with more duct tape than bag holding it together; and a length of two-by-four wrapped in coarse rope.

Checking the back, Chase found that he could hang the bag from the bottom of the dock, four upright into it, packing the sand tight around the base. It was makeshift, but his workouts were getting makeshift, so it would do.

Chase stripped off his shirt and took off his shoes, the sand cool under the soles of his feet. He began to work the bag, slowly and with little power at first, getting the muscles, not used to the movement after the days of driving, back into the flow. Warmed up, he started the timer on his watch and went into a routine he’d been using for years. He pummeled the duct tape/canvas, interspersing the punches with snap kicks, side kicks, and turn kicks. No Hollywood spinning high kicks; those had left the repertoire years ago, when he’d stopped taking the time to warm up and stretch his hamstrings out. Plus, anything above the waist with a kick was a wasted movement in a real encounter.

Chelsea lay down on the grass above the metal sea wall to watch him, curious what tomfoolery he was up to now.

Chase was breathing hard after thirty seconds. He’d tried quitting smoking when he left Boulder, but apparently a week wasn’t enough to clear the lungs out. He kept at it though. He began to slow down, his arms feeling like he was punching through water and his legs growing heavy.

“Fuck it,” Chase muttered. He checked his watch. Two minutes and forty seconds to go. He hadn’t even made it halfway. He turned the timer off and stopped, leaning over to catch his breath.

He’d get back in shape, he promised himself. Then he wondered about the promise; what did he have to get in shape for?

He was retired.

Chase straightened and went over to the two by four. He hit it at half speed and power. Knuckles, knife edge, open palm. All the striking surfaces. The calluses he’d built up over the years had sustained better than his wind. His hands tingled, but he didn’t break skin.

When he started coughing, he surrendered. Sweat was running down his bare chest in rivulets and steam rose off his body. He noticed that Chelsea was gone. He hopped up over the sea wall and headed for the sliding door he’d left open. As he entered, Chelsea began barking; not at him, but at the front door, hackles raised.

Chase figured the doorbell was broken, along with a lot of other things here. He paused to pick up a small rubber ball, a hand cruncher, and he began absently working it with one hand as he went to the door. He pushed a knee against Chelsea, trying to edge her out of the way, not an easy task.

As Chelsea continued to bark, Chase opened the door. He tossed the cruncher aside as he held on to Chelsea’s collar with that hand. Two men. One in a khaki uniform, Smoky the Bear hat, aviator sunglasses, and a belt festooned with pistol, taser, pepper spray, cuffs, baton, extra ammo clips; enough crap that Chase figured the guy was compensating for something. The other, older man was wearing a lightweight white sports coat and slacks, with a pale blue silk shirt underneath. He was a whip-thin, wiry man, and his graying flat-top haircut screamed former military service. He had a badge on his belt, and an automatic in a supple leather holster clipped on his right hip. There were two cars behind them. A patrol car with Spanish Wells Security stenciled on the side, and an un-marked, obvious cop car.

“Yes?” Chase asked.

The plainclothes spoke, his voice carrying the slow rhythm and accent of the low-country. “Good day, sir. Sorry to interrupt. Were you in the middle of something?” he added, taking in the lack of shirt and abundance of sweat.

“Just doing a workout.”

“Always good to keep one’s self fit,” the plainclothes said, with enough lack of enthusiasm to indicate what he really thought of working out. “I’m Lieutenant Parsons from the Beaufort Sheriff’s office. This here is Officer Graves from Spanish Wells Security. We have a report that a man living hereabouts pointed a gun at his neighbor.”

“You received bad information,” Chase corrected. “The man living there”—he pointed with his free hand to the neighbor’s mansion—“pointed a gun at me.”

“That’s most strange, sir,” Parsons said with a frown, “because Mister Rollins, who lives yonder, he be the one who called in the report. Y’all mind if we come in?” He was already moving forward, but Chase didn’t yield his position, Chelsea at his side.

“Yes.”

Parsons stopped, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Graves, then back at Chase. “You be new to the island, ain’t you, son?”

Chase figured Parsons had less than a decade on him, and didn’t appreciate the ‘son’ comment. “I’ve been here before.”

“Do you know who Mister Rollins is?” Parsons asked.

“The man who pointed a gun at me.”

Graves finally spoke, his broad face red and a vein throbbing in his forehead. “That’s not what Mister Rollins says.” Chelsea growled and Graves glared down at her, his hand hovering over the automatic strapped to his belt. “You better control your dog.”

Chase hadn’t seen this many trigger-happy people since Afghanistan. He checked that thought: Colorado had been pretty damn bloody. “I am controlling her, and you are not welcome in my home.” It was the first time he’d said those last two words, and he liked the way it sounded, too.

Parsons shook his head. “Son, we can do this easy or we can do this hard. Seems like you want hard. May I please see some identification? And perhaps you might want to put a shirt on?”

Chase realized that both cops were taken aback by the messages of violence etched into his torso. A dozen pockmarked scars on the right side, arcing from waist to just below his armpit, the result of a Taliban grenade. A round, puckered mark on his stomach, left of center, where his body had welcomed in the bullet that had caused him to be medevaced out of Afghanistan.

“One minute.” Chase shut the door with Chelsea inside, found his shirt, and tugged it on. Then he grabbed his money clip. His federal ID card was in the center. He pulled it out and opened the door, shutting it on an unhappy Chelsea. As he came back out, he spotted Sarah walking up his driveway once more, still in workout clothes, looking none-too-happy about something.

Parsons noticed her, too, and frowned, the lines on his face etched deep, then went back to looking at the card. “Horace Chase? You’re retired military?”

“That’s what the card says.”

Parsons gave a wry smile. “Thank you for that there observation.” He was reading it as Sarah came up. Chase nodded at her as Parsons spoke. “Retired just a couple of months ago. Lieutenant Colonel. Army. What you do in the Army, Cuhnel?” He said the last word slow and drawn out. At least he had dropped the ‘son’, Chase observed.

“It’s Mister Chase, now. I was in Special Operations.”

The two cops exchanged a glance. Chase could tell from the question on Graves’ face that he was clueless, but from the way Parsons quickly gave the card back, he knew what that meant.

“What exactly are ya doing here, Cuhnel?” Parsons asked. Chase sensed no slight in the last word, so he let it go.

“Not really any of your business, Lieutenant,” Chase said. He was watching the vein in the deputy’s forehead pulse, expecting at any moment to see it explode and shower them with blood.

“What do you want, ma’am?” Parsons said to Sarah. “Do you live here with Cuhnel Chase?”

“No, I don’t,” Sarah answered. “Is this about the gun?” she asked. “I saw it all. Mister Chase did nothing wrong.”

“Why don’t you mind your business, lady,” Graves said, making it an order, not a suggestion or question.

“Why don’t you go harass the man next door?” She looked at Chase. “I’ll testify for you, if you need it.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Chase said. “Not for me, not for anyone else.”

“We can enter anyone’s house in the Plantation,” Graves said, “if we feel there’s a safety threat.”

“You think I’m a threat?” Chase stared at him, but it was Parsons who answered as the vein pulsed even harder in Graves’ forehead.

“Actually, I think you are indeed, Cuhnel, but let’s just sit it at this: leave Mister Rollins alone. Best for everyone all around. Is that all right with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he shifted his gaze to Sarah. “And it is indeed best if you leave now, miss.”

Chase watched the blood rise on Sarah’s face, but she nodded and strode off down the driveway. The rent-a-cop was watching her, eyes raking up and down her body, but Parsons’ attention was back on Chase. “Lay low, Cuhnel. This isn’t a military post.” He paused, then added in a low voice so that Graves, still ogling Sarah’s rear, couldn’t hear: “Semper Fi.” Then he turned and walked toward the un-marked car.

The rent-a-cop looked slightly surprised at the abrupt ending, glared at Chase for a few seconds longer than needed, then stomped off to his car and followed Parsons around the loop and down the driveway, taking the turn a little too hard and spitting gravel from underneath his tires.

Chase went back into the house and stared at the two battered footlockers resting in the middle of the living room for a few moments. A couple of footlockers, a couple of duffel bags, and a handful of medals were his inheritance from the military and his brief stint in Boulder, Colorado as a Federal counter-terrorism liaison to the local police department.

That had not ended well, and thus the forced retirement from Federal service.

Chelsea was his gift from one of his few friends there, but given only after his friend had to go to the pound and get a replacement for her own dog, which had been decapitated by a Russian drug dealer Chase had been after. That pretty much summed up his Boulder and police experience.

This house was the inheritance from his mother. The sum total of his new life from his old.

He knelt next to one of the lockers—the one with a padlock—and spun the combination and opened it. Resting inside was his military/cop gear. Body armor. Guns. Knives. Night vision goggles. MOLLE vest. Camouflage fatigues and more. The tools of his previous trade.

He reached in and pulled out the MK23 Special Operations Mod O semi-automatic pistol, encased in a well-worn leather holster. He clipped the holster on the back of his jeans, underneath his black T-shirt, along with a plastic ammo case holding two spare magazines. The bullets were all hollow-points, designed to stop whatever they hit.

This was turning out just dandy.

First day, and strapped already.

Then he looked up at the tree limbs poking through the ceiling, then at the fireplace. At least he’d have firewood when the tree died.

* * * * *

She came back just after dark. Pounding on the door. Chelsea barked at the first thud, and didn’t stop.

Chase knew it was Sarah by her profile, which he could see through the broken blinds on the window next to it. He cracked the door open. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with fear.

“They’re coming! I need your help.”

“Who is—” Chase began as he opened the door wide, but then Chelsea shoved her way past him, growling and barking, racing off into the darkness of the front yard. Chase spotted movement among the trees, shadowy figures coming toward the house. There was a muzzle flash—but no sound of the shot—and Chase grabbed Sarah and pulled her to the ground as he heard Chelsea’s yelp of pain. Whoever had fired was using a suppressor, which meant they might have more of an idea what they were doing than the golfers earlier.

“Stay down.” Chase pulled the MK23. He low-crawled forward, along the line of unkempt bushes adjacent to the walk, trying to get a visual on the intruders. Reaching the end of the bushes, he rolled right to the angled tree trunk, using it as cover. He heard something moving to his left front and he aimed, finger resting lightly on the trigger, the only safety a true shooter used, as he’d been taught in the killing house at Fort Bragg.