Deadly Shore, page 13
His cousins, on the other hand, were just cruel—two of them, anyway. The oldest, Cissy, was the kindest of the whole family and treated him decently. But she was older than the others and had her own life. The other two—twins—were two of the most evil people he had ever met. Sandy and Sharon, two years older than Mason, would go out of their way to terrorize him and made his life even more of a living hell than it already was. He was small for his age and the twins were not, each outweighing him by almost double. They beat him when their sister and mother weren't around and constantly played nasty tricks on him. He often considered running away, but could never muster up the courage.
He missed his parents terribly, and like so many others in the country at that time, came to hate anyone of Arab descent and cheered when troops were sent to the Middle-East. When he was fourteen and in his first month of high school, his class was assigned a project researching 9/11. His teacher had no idea that Mason's parents were killed in the attack, and when he found out, was mortified and apologized profusely to Mason. By then Mason was able to take it all in stride to some extent, and tried to reassure his teacher that it was okay. However, his teacher gave him free reign in choosing his topic—a decision that would affect the rest of Mason's life.
Mason had begun hearing stories about what the government knew and what it didn't. He heard about the unheeded warnings concerning a possible terrorist attack in hijacked airliners. From there he moved onto conspiracy theories involving the inferior metal used in the construction of the towers, and others about how much the government knew ahead of time about the attack. The more he read, the more he believed that it could have been prevented and his parents didn't have to die. He became obsessed with the subject, wisely keeping his obsession to himself, and studying everything he could find about the attack.
All the while, he was living in a place he hated, with a family that was becoming increasingly hostile to him. Cissy went off to college the next fall, when Mason was fifteen, giving the other two total freedom to terrorize Mason even more. He couldn't go to his aunt for help. By that time she had sunk into an alcoholic haze that began when it finally dawned on her that she couldn't go back to those carefree high school years.
One weekend night his cousins were having a sleepover with some friends. They told their mother that it was an all-girl sleepover, but the minute their mother retired to her bed and her bottle, they all snuck in their boyfriends. Mason stayed in his room, studying his 9/11 theories.
He had just gone to bed in his pajamas when his door burst open and three of the boyfriends grabbed him and carried him out to the living room. Mason was scared and could see that they were all pretty drunk. He knew something awful was about to happen. The boyfriends ripped his pajamas off and he was standing naked in front of a group of about twelve teenagers, most of whom he knew from school, and some of the younger ones were his classmates. He was embarrassed by his scrawny body and tried to cover up his private area, but the boys held his arms. Then his two step-sisters approached him and took off their tops, revealing their ample breasts. He felt himself growing down below in front of everyone.
"We've seen you looking at us," said Sandy. "So what are you going to do about it?" She reached in and touched his hardness. The inevitable happened amid the roar of laughter from everyone in the room. When the nightmare was over, the two boys let go of his arms. He picked up his pajamas and covered himself, humiliated beyond anything he ever could have imagined. As they all got up to leave, thanking him for the show, his cousin said, "You better clean that up. Mom will kill you for getting it all over the carpet."
And then he was alone with his humiliation, his world having once again crashed down on him. He despised his life with his adopted family on Cape Cod, he hated what he was believing to be true about his government, and he was no longer willing to sit by and let it all happen. It was then that the germ of his idea of revenge was born.
When he left high school, he joined the army—not out of any sense of patriotism, but rather, with the hope that he would gather some of the fighting skills he might need in the future. Unfortunately, he never did. While he was highly intelligent, he lacked the physical skills to make it into Special Forces as a Ranger or a Green Beret. He ended up in procurement, ordering everything from uniforms to toilets, experiencing first-hand just how screwed up the military was. It only served to point out how needless the death of his parents was, and to further fan the flames of hate deep inside him. Putting on a convincing performance, along with some self-inflicted injuries, Mason was able to get out on a disability after only three years.
*****
Mason tried to erase the thoughts from his head. It would be a couple of years before his idea would reach the planning stage, but it gave him more time for the hatred to fester. If the government had done its job, he would have been able to live a normal life. Who knows what he would be doing now. But he was robbed of that chance.
Over the years he read just about every report and theory available on 9/11. He wasn't stupid. He knew that some of the crackpot theories were too farfetched to be true. But there were many that he believed—maybe because he wanted to believe them, or maybe because they made just enough sense to be credible. But it didn't matter. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the U.S. government had dropped the ball, and it was time to make them pay.
But he wanted something good to come out of this, as well, so that his parents' deaths wouldn't be in vain. The terrorist attacks on American soil had increased dramatically over the last couple of years and nothing was being done. He was convinced that it was because none of them were large enough. A few people killed from a shooting; another thirty in a shopping mall; ten from a car bomb; all acts of terror but nothing on a grand scale. Nothing to make the government sit back and say, "It's time to do something." Everything was argued endlessly in Congress and blamed on the president, who in turn, blamed Congress. Nothing was going to get done. It was up to Mason.
After the army he used the GI Bill to go to college, where he excelled, pulling down close to a 4.0 grade point average and majoring in chemistry. Rather than going on to graduate school, he took a job with a government lab that worked with biological and chemical weapons. It was there that he realized how much the U.S. was involved in the creation of these weapons, no matter how often the government said they were only working on ways to defend against other countries' weapons.
The last project he worked on before leaving the lab was D-394, an enhanced strain of anthrax. The spores were finer, allowing for better distribution by air, but also twice as potent. But even better, at least in Mason's mind, was that it was now more water soluble, much more likely to make its way through filters. And being more potent, it was able to stay active in a water supply much longer than conventional anthrax. Its value as a weapon had more than doubled. Stealing a batch of it was ridiculously easy, further pointing out the government's lack of security. He was able to make it appear that the D-394 was lost in transit to another government facility. He stayed at the lab another year, mostly to avoid having any suspicion of the loss of the weapon put on him. When he did leave, his co-workers were sad to see him go and even threw him a party.
The attack was planned with great thought. The first step was money. He needed enough to buy explosives and pay his two explosives experts an advance of their pay—the only payment they would ever receive. He and Tanner also needed money to travel around gathering up their pawns. In retrospect, with the impending hurricane and the unexpected loss of phones, the four others weren't really needed. They were supposed to travel around the Cape after the bridges came down and keep Mason informed of the situation and of any problems that might pop up. Now they were just extra baggage. The money came from a fraudulent crowdfunding campaign for a product that didn't exist and never would. From it they earned enough to cover step one.
The bridges coming down and trapping people on the Cape was step two. He wanted people scared—no, he wanted them terrified. He wanted this talked about more than 9/11, and it was important that people saw it coming. He wanted the whole country afraid. He would follow up the bridges with a series of messages over the next couple of days threatening the anthrax. He knew that at first the government would put a gag order on the news, but he also knew that word would get out, causing panic all over the country. They would know that if it can happen on Cape Cod, it can happen anywhere.
And finally, just as Mason accepted whatever offer the government made—it didn't matter what—he would let the anthrax go into the water supply—not into the air, as would most likely be suspected—killing thousands. The lack of phones made contacting his Chicago man impossible, taking away all of the drama around the event. And with the bad weather leading into a hurricane on the 8th, even his release date of the 8th might have to be postponed a day.
No, he decided. He'd stick to his schedule of the 8th, no matter what the weather. The date had too much meaning for him. Both of his parents were born on July 8th. Although the year of birth was different—his father was two years older—his parents took great delight in the fact that they shared the same day. Mason took that into account when planning the attack. He would have stretched the terror out even a couple of more days, but it seemed appropriate that the country get the message on the birthday of probably the first two casualties of 9/11. The message would still get through though, he'd make sure of that, with the fringe benefit of Cape Cod and his fat cousins, both of whom still lived there, going down with it. He wouldn't have the satisfaction of watching the aftermath though—and this was the part he never told Tanner—Mason would die with the rest of the victims.
Unlike the others though, he would be just one more victim of 9/11.
Chapter 29
Ann's mother used to say in moments of anger that she was so mad she could spit nails. Ann had never been that angry herself … until now. She was no longer scared of Doyle ... well, sort of. She really didn't think he'd hurt her, but on the other hand, it paid to be cautious.
After their discussion about Doyle being a punk, he had gone silent, almost refusing to look at her. She was right and he knew it. A day earlier he was so proud of himself for having ripped off Flint for a million bucks, but now he was scared. The things he was scared of were mounting quickly: 1) Flint—especially now that Flint knew Doyle was in possession of the other item—and his men; 2) the unknown equation that the terrorists represented; 3) Ann—she was a smart old lady and he knew he was going to have to watch her closely; 4) and finally, the understanding that Ann was right, he was a loser. Ripping off Flint was just a step up from ripping off convenience stores and gas stations, and it certainly wasn't something he should be proud of. He was wishing he had picked a different house to hide out in.
All of these thoughts had made Doyle quiet and morose. Ann, on the other hand, was doing everything she could to piss him off. It was clear that Doyle wasn't a killer. Not that he couldn't suddenly become one, of course, or at least become violent, but Ann was pretty sure he wouldn't hurt her. Right after the argument Doyle had confiscated Ann's keys, so escaping by Jeep wasn't an option. He had also taken her cell phone and had unplugged her house phone, in case some service was restored.
So she was left with annoying him until he got fed up and took off. Despite him saying that he wasn't hungry, Ann could see that he was famished, so she made a batch of eggs with onion (so as to fill the house with the smell of food) and sat down at the table and ate it right in front of Doyle.
From Doyle's perspective, she was acting like a little kid. But it was working. He was getting more and more pissed at her. Finally, after about three hours of this, he couldn't take it any longer.
"Okay, you win," he said. "I'm sorry I yelled at you and I'm sorry to be interfering in your life. I really am. This is not where I want to be, trust me. I treated you badly and I apologize. You're a good person and don't deserve this. I'm just in a mess of shit—more than you could imagine—and I don't know how to get out of it. I'm just hoping that if I lay low during this, I might be able to survive. It wasn't my intention to put you in danger, but if I let you go now or if I leave, you'll go to the police and I will be dead for sure.
That's what she was waiting for. With all that had happened, all she wanted (besides Doyle to leave) was an apology. She looked at him and could almost feel sorry for him. He was pretty pathetic-looking at that moment.
"Would you like something to eat?" she asked softly.
"Please," he said, eyes still looking down.
It was lunchtime by now, but she still made him a large batch of eggs and toast that he dug into greedily. When he was done, he sat back and let out a quiet "thank you."
"Can't you just return the money?" she asked. She was sitting across from him.
"Don't want to, but even if I did, I couldn't."
"Why not?"
Doyle realized that he needed to tell someone, and he didn't have a lot of people to choose from.
"It's not just the money. There's something else." When he got no response, he continued. "Do you remember the story about five years ago—I don't know, maybe it was more than that—of the priest in Boston who was murdered?"
"Vaguely."
"You'll remember this. It was all over the national news. He owned a really ornate crucifix that had been passed down in his family for centuries. It had jewels in it and it was solid gold. The thing was worth a fortune, but he refused to sell it. They never caught the guy who killed him and the cross has never shown up. Whoever killed him has never tried to sell it, as far as anyone knows."
"I do remember it now. That story went on for months."
Doyle got up and went to his backpack and pulled out a velvet bag. He brought it to the table and set it down in front of Ann. "Open it."
She knew what was in there and found herself trembling as she opened the bag. She reached in and pulled out a crucifix about eight inches long and six inches wide. It was beautiful! She remembered seeing pictures of it on TV, but they hadn't done it justice. It was definitely gold—it was heavy, very heavy for its size—and jewels lined the front. She could identify emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and a blue stone that escaped her mind for the moment. She glanced up at Doyle with a questioning look.
"This was in the safe with the money. I didn't know what it was, so I just grabbed it and put it in my backpack with the cash. Don't you see? I can't return this," he said. "The very fact that I've seen it makes me a dead man. I looked it up online last night before my cell service crapped out. This is definitely the one. It means that Flint, the guy I stole it from, killed the priest, or had him killed. How else would he end up with it? Losing the money is one thing, but for a guy like Flint it's probably loose change. If all I got was the money, I'm not even sure how much he'd be after me right now. But the cross? Holy shit! My life is over if he finds me."
"As is mine."
"I'm sorry. I really am. But don't you see? This is like the most private place around. He'd never find me here. The minute I leave, he'll find me."
"What about your car?"
"It's down the road in a secluded spot. Besides, he has no idea what I was driving. This is a rental."
Like it or not, Doyle was staying. Ann thought again of her gun next to the bed, but who was she kidding? She couldn't use it on him and if she tried to bluff him with it, he'd just take it away from her. Besides, despite all he had done in forcing himself into her life, she was developing a bit of a soft spot toward him. He was a crook, no doubt about that, but he was also someone who had gotten himself into something way over his head. That made him pathetic and brought out the nurturing instinct in her.
She sighed. "I guess I can't do anything about you staying here, but I'm going to go through my food twice as fast now, and with a hurricane coming, that's not good."
"Trust me, I won't eat much. I'm too stressed. I get your point, though, and I'll live on one meal a day." He thought for a moment. "I wonder how much Flint is freaking out about the cross."
*****
Freaking out was an understatement. At first, in his panic, he had sent his men out willy-nilly in the hopes that one of them would see Doyle. But once the cell phones lost service and he realized that gas was eventually going to run out, he decided it was time to strategize.
So at that moment he was standing next to a map of the Cape pinned to the wall, barking out orders to his men on how to make the search as efficient as possible.
Using his contacts the day before, before the phones went dead, he'd had a picture of Doyle emailed to him. It was a mug shot three of four years old, but it would do. Flint broke one of Vincent's fingers to convince him to give a detailed version of Doyle's current look. He had eight men in on the hunt, each with his own car and a full tank of gas—again, the beauty of being rich. However, one tank each was all they were going to be able to get, so he urged them to be smart and coordinate their search in such a way as to use the least amount of fuel. If one of them happened to run across him, he could bring him back to Flint—preferably alive, but dead would be acceptable—along with the things he stole.
Flint knew it was a shot in the dark, but not impossible. They were to concentrate their search on the car, not the man. If they found the car, they were to come back and wait for the others, then they would all go back together and search the area in the vicinity of the car. Most of his men assumed it all had to do with the missing money. Only two of Flint's most trusted employees knew the real object of the hunt.
