Infernal

1

Back again on terra firma, the first thing Tom did was plunk some change into the phone by the Wanchese dock and call home. They'd made good time coming back.

He watched the sun rise over the North Carolina pines as he listened to the rings.

Finally a voice thick with sleep answered. "Hello?"

"Terry? It's me."

Suddenly she came alive. "Tom! Oh, God! Where are you?"

Something in her tone warned him against answering that.

"In transit."

"But where?"

Although he already knew the answer, Tom said, "Something wrong?" Then held his breath.

"Wrong? Yes, damn it, something is very wrong! I've been visited every day by a pair of federal marshals. They know you're gone and they're watching the house. They follow me wherever I go—probably think I'm sneaking off to meet you or something. But how can I when I don't know where you are? I wasn't even sure you were still alive until just now!"

Oh, shit. Oh, hell.

Sweat oozed onto Tom's palms. He was fucked.

"Wh-why did they come by?"

"To bring you down to the federal building to ask you some questions about Bieber. I made excuses the first two times, but then they got suspicious. They know you've left town, Tom, but they don't know for how long. If you come back now, maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe you can tie it in to your dad's death. You know, you just had to go see his grave or something like that."

… or something like that…

Oh, sure. That'll fly. Like a penguin.

"Come home, Tom. With your father's death—I mean, how it happened, and the national day of mourning and all—maybe you can get them to give you another chance."

Tom didn't see that happening without putting on a huge display of grief and throwing himself on the mercy of the court. And even then it was iffy.

No, he wasn't about to play the penitent bad boy for those gonifs.

Then he realized the feds probably had his line tapped. Shit! He should have thought of that. They'd probably pinpointed this pay phone already.

But he had to say something. No sense in lying about where he was… but he had to play dumb… ease into it.

He licked his lips.

"Great idea, Terry. Next time they come knocking, tell them you spoke to me. Tell them I'm like you said… really upset about Dad's death and hanging out at the graveyard."

"No way, Tom. I'm not lying for you. You've dug one big lousy hole for yourself, but I'm not getting in there with you."

"Come on, Terry."

"No! Look what you've done to my life! I can't go anywhere without people talking and pointing and whispering behind my back! I've tried to get together with Lisa and Susan for lunch but they both always seem to have something else to do, and they can't get off the phone fast enough. You're the one who's under indictment but I'm the prisoner. I'm stuck in this house because I've got nowhere I can go!"

Tom gritted his teeth at the sound of her sob.

So typical. I'm the one whose career is down the toilet, I'm the one facing opprobrium and jail time, and she's all bent out of shape because her social life is on the rocks.

Fuck. Her.

Okay. Time to send the feds in the wrong direction.

"Terry, I'm sorry for the way things are going but I'll make them right. Just between you and me, I'm about to leave for Bermuda and—"

She gasped. "Bermuda? But that means you're… you're leaving the country?"

Give the virago a prize!

"Yes, but only temporarily."

"They'll hang you if they find out!"

"Don't worry. I've just got an errand to run, and when I come hack, we'll be fixed up."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

"But how are you getting there?"

"By boat."

"You don't have a boat!"

"I'm borrowing one."

"You can't do this! You'll only make things worse. It'll be in the papers and—"

Unable to weather another second of objurgation, he hung up. Then he leaned against the side of the booth and squeezed his eyes shut.

They'd loosed the hounds. What the hell was he going to do?

The feds would be sending someone to Wanchese. When they didn't find him here they'd assume he was headed across to Bermuda. Would they go so far as an air-sea search? He doubted it. But he'd bet they'd send marshals to Bermuda to nab him when he showed up at the bank.

He had to get out of here mach schnell. But where to?

Philly was out of the question now. Show his face and they'd toss him into their deepest dungeon.

New York…

Yes… bring the Lilitongue to New York. Probably an even better place than Philly to learn about it, what with Columbia University, NYU, the Museum of Natural History and all.

But where to stay? He couldn't use a credit card…

He glanced over to where Jack was stowing the last of their gear into the coffin-sized trunk of his Crown Vic.

Jack's place… a safe haven. Wherever it was, a sure bet he had it listed under a phony name. Just like his credit card.

Tom had almost burst out laughing when he'd seen the name on the gas receipt. John Tyleski… the name from the hotel. Tom hadn't dreamed that was Jack.

Despite all the shit coming down, Tom had to smile. Little Brother was soon going to be getting one mammoth MasterCard bill.

The smile faded. The last thing Little Brother wanted was him crashing for a week or two. If asked, Jack would turn him down—no question. So he'd have to get in through the back door. There had to be a way. After all, he had an eight-hour drive to figure it out.

Yeah, like it or not, Jack was going to have a houseguest. And once he got himself inside, there he'd stay until he'd unlocked the mysteries of the Lilitongue.

Tom smiled. Call me Sheridan Whiteside.