Gateways. Part 46

"Carl," Jack said, pointing to the screwdriver protruding from his sleeve. "Do me a favor and use that to take the medicine cabinet out of the wall in the bathroom."

Carl gave him a strange look-imagine that-then shrugged and nodded and said, "Okay."

"Medicine cabinet?" Tom said. "What-?"

Jack turned his back and headed for the hall closet.

"Look, Dad," he said as he knelt by the toolbox and began rummaging through its contents. "I don't know for sure, but I think that taking Anya has something to do with the lights. But the lights only last a couple of days. By tonight or early tomorrow morning they'll be gone for another six months."

"What lights?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot." He pulled a socket wrench from the toolbox and headed for the dinette table. "You don't know about the lights."

"Care to enlighten me?" Tom said, following. "And what do you think you're going to do with that wrench?"

"You'll see. As for the lights, forget about them for now. Take too long to explain. What matters is that after the lights go out, Semelee and Company will have no more need to hang around their lagoon. Good chance they'll be gone by sunup tomorrow."

"And take Anya with them?"

Jack gave him a stony look before he crouched under the table and began loosening the nuts that fastened it to its support pillar.

"I doubt it. She's the one whose dog chewed a hole in the side of that big mutant gator, remember? I'm worried they'll feed her to it before they go-if they haven't already."

Tom felt his knees go rubbery. "No...they couldn't."

"Let's hope not."

"Hey!" Carl called from the bathroom. "They's only one screw holdin' this cabinet in place and that's only halfway in."

"I know," Jack called back. "Just twist it out."

One screw? Tom brushed aside questions about his medicine cabinet. The thought of Anya being hurt overshadowed all that.

"Jack, we've got to call the police. Or the Coast Guard, or the Park Service."

Jack stuck his head out from under the table and gave him a you've got-to-be-kidding look.

"She's a friend, Dad. A better friend than you know. And I owe her."

"For what?"

"For you being alive."

"What are you talking about?"

"She's the one who reported your accident to the police twenty minutes before it happened."

"That's as crazy as going out in this storm. She told you that?"

"She didn't. But I've no question in my mind that's what happened. She knows things, Dad. All sorts of things. And now she needs help. When a good friend needs help, you don't call on somebody else. You go yourself."

The words struck a chord deep within Tom. Yes, he knew that. He'd been taught that. He'd lived that. But where had Jack come by it?

And yet he couldn't allow himself to bend here, couldn't let Jack go out into that storm against twenty men.

"Where's that written?"

Jack slipped out from under the table and rose to his feet, his face barely a foot away. He tapped a finger on the center of his forehead.

"In here. Right in here."

Yes...that was where it would be. But not the only place.

He tapped his son's chest, over the heart. "In there too."

Jack nodded. "Yeah. There too."

And as they stood staring at each other, Tom flashed back to Korea. That had been the Marine code: n.o.body gets left behind. At least n.o.body still breathing. Sometimes you had to leave your dead, but you never left your living. If someone was stranded, or hurt and unable to get out on his own, you went in and got him.

And you didn't call on anyone else because there wasn't anyone better. You were US Marines, the toughest sons of b.i.t.c.hes on earth. It was a matter of pride. If you couldn't do it, no one could.

Back at Chosin, when Tom took that piece of shrapnel in the gut, he'd radioed in that he'd been hit and couldn't make it out. He'd expected his buddies to want want to come and get him, but figured there was no way with all the s.h.i.+t coming down on the Fifth. But d.a.m.ned if three of them hadn't shown up after dark and carried him out. to come and get him, but figured there was no way with all the s.h.i.+t coming down on the Fifth. But d.a.m.ned if three of them hadn't shown up after dark and carried him out.

"Help me lift off this top," Jack said.

"What on earth for?"

"Let's just do it."

Tom grabbed one side, Jack the other. They lifted it, tilted it, and leaned it against the kitchenette counter. Then Jack reached into the hollow interior of the post and came up with a black plastic bag. Its lumpy contents clunked together as he laid it on the counter.

"What the h.e.l.l? How'd that get in there?"

"I put it in the other day. Let me tell you, I had one h.e.l.l of a time maneuvering that tabletop around on my own."

"But what've you got in there?"

Jack reached in and came out with a fist-size lump of metal that he flipped over the counter. Tom caught it, saw what it was-a smooth metal sphere the size of a tennis ball, with a key ring at the top attached to a safety clip-and felt his heart trip over a beat.

"A grenade?"

"M-67s. I had a dozen sent down after seeing that gator."

"Sent down when? I never saw any-" And then it hit him. "The toys. They were in the toys, right?"

Jack gave him a tight smile. "Right. I also-"

"Hey!" Carl called from the bathroom. "You got a gun in this wall!"

"What?"

A gun? In his wall? Tom started toward the bathroom but Jack got there first. Carl had pulled the medicine cabinet from the wall, exposing the studs and the unfinished backside of the Sheetrock of the opposite wall. The end of an empty metal tube jutted a couple of inches up from the lower end of the s.p.a.ce. It had a blued-steel finish and looked like an open plumbing pipe until Tom spotted the bead sight on the end and realized this was the business end of a shotgun barrel.

Jack fished it out and handed it to Carl. Its black polymer stock barely reflected the overhead lights.

"Ever use a shotgun?"

Carl laughed. "You kiddin'? Fed myself mostly by fis.h.i.+n' and huntin' before I came to work here. If'n I wasn't no good, I'da starved." He took it from Jack and hefted it. "But I ain't never see one like this before."

Neither had Tom. He saw a breechlock, a magazine tube, but where was the slide handle?

"It's a Benelli-an M1 Super 90, to be exact. I think the semi-auto action will work best for you."

"A semi-auto shotgun?" Tom said. "I didn't even know they made such a thing."

"She's a beauty," Carl said. "I like the rubber grip. Kinda like a pistol."

"Very much like a pistol. Will you be able to handle it?"

"Sure. I told you-"

"I mean"-Jack glanced at Carl's right sleeve-"will you need to modify the stock or anything?"

"Nuh-uh. I'll be fine."

"Great. Excuse me, Dad," he said as he turned and edged by Tom into the front room. "Be back in a minute."

Without another word he ran out into the storm. Two minutes later he returned, dripping, carrying an oblong object wrapped in a blanket Tom had last seen in the linen closet. He pulled it off to reveal another shotgun.

"I'll use this one," Jack said.

With its ridged slide handle riding under the barrel, this one was more like how Tom pictured a shotgun. Its polymer stock was done up with standard camouflage greens and browns.

"It looks military," Tom said.

"It is. It's a Mossberg 590, made to military specs. Very reliable." He started across the front room. "Now...one last thing and we'll be set to go."

Tom followed Jack around to the guest bedroom where Jack pulled out the bottom drawer on the dresser and laid it on the floor. Tom watched in shock as his son reached into the s.p.a.ce beneath and produced one box of sh.e.l.ls, then another, then another...

"Jesus, Jack! Did you think you were going to war?"

"After I saw that gator, I figured a little old 9mm pistol wasn't going to do the job, so I ordered up some heavy artillery."

"But two two shotguns?" shotguns?"

"Well, yeah. One for here and one for the car, in case something happened while we were out."

Carl stepped into the doorway, carrying the Benelli. "What you got this loaded with?"

"With what's known as a 'Highway Patrol c.o.c.ktail'-alternating sh.e.l.ls of double-ought buckshot and rifled slugs." He held up one of the boxes. "Here are our reloads."

Tom felt a tightening in his chest. He didn't know if it was his heart or dismay at what was happening here. He slipped past Carl, went to his own bedroom, and pulled the M1C from the closet. He carried it back to Jack and Carl.

"What are you doing with that?" Jack said.

"Well, since I can't talk you out of this insanity, I guess I'll have to come along."

"No way, Dad."

Tom felt his anger flare. "Aren't you the one who just gave me a lecture on going out for a friend in trouble?"

"Yeah, but-"

"And have either of you ever been in a firefight?" He didn't wait for an answer. "No, of course not. Well, I have. And that's what you could very easily wind up in. You're going to need me."

"Dad-"

Tom jabbed a finger at him. "Who put you in charge anyway? Besides, your mother would never forgive me if I let you go out there without backing you up. I'm in."

Jack stared at him a moment, then sighed. "All right." He held out the Mossberg. "But put away that antique and take this."

"But I'm more comfortable with-"

"Dad, it's going to be dark with all sorts of wind and rain. Let's hope we can pull this off without any gunplay, but if it comes to that, we'll be working close-maybe twenty-five feet, fifty max. A sniper rifle's no good in that situation."

Tom had to admit he was right. He reluctantly took the shotgun.

"But what are you going to use?"

"I'll have the grenades. But I'll also have..." Jack reached back into the s.p.a.ce below the drawer and pulled out a huge revolver. It had a gray finish and was well over a foot in length. The barrel alone looked to be about ten inches long.

"Oh, man!" Carl said. "What's that that ?" ?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Tom said.

"A Ruger Super Redhawk chambered for .454 Casull rounds. I do believe this will stop that gator if he shows up again."

"Looks like it'll stop a elephant," Carl said.

A discomforting thought started worming through Tom's brain.

"Jack...you're not in one of these right-wing paramilitary groups, are you?"

He laughed. "You mean like the Posse Comitatus or Aryan Nation? Not a chance. I'm not a joiner, and even if I were, I wouldn't join them."

"Then what are you? Some sort of mercenary?"

"Why are you asking all this?"