Sanctuary Creek Read online

  Sanctuary Creek: Volume Three in the Macroglint Trilogy © 2017 by John Patrick Kavanagh

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For more information contact:

  Riverdale Avenue Books

  5676 Riverdale Avenue

  Riverdale, NY 10471.

  www.riverdaleavebooks.com

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  Cover Art by J. Lionne-Demilunes

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62601-426-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62601-427-5

  First Edition December 2017

  What They’re Saying about Sixers

  Volume One of the Macroglint Triligy

  Tense, involving, Sixers is a smart near-future thriller with a startlingly real sense of plausibility. In a world that’s falling apart, can one ordinary person make a difference? Tremendous stuff! Kavanagh can write!”

  — Hugo Award-winner David Wingrove, author of the Chung Kuo series and the Roads To Moscow trilogy

  “Terrific.” — Scott Turow, author of Presumed Innocent and Burden of Proof

  “(a) well-wrought debut… both engaging and fun to read.” — Publishers Weekly

  “A stunning debut novel… skillfully crafted… gripping and disturbing… an important new voice.” — Rave Reviews

  “A writer to reckon with… engrossing and well-written.” - West Coast Review of Books

  “This is a brave, wonderful book.” — Arthur Shay, Speaking Volumes

  Chapter One

  “Chariot One? Chariot Two?” the bayou voice cooed, interrupting the jazz playing softly on the limousine’s stereo system. “This is Delta. There are an unusual number of hounds at the front gate. Please switch to your designated secured frequencies and wait for further instructions from me via Magi II. I may be returning you to the Stable via Thunder Road.”

  The passenger shot a short glance in the direction of the driver, then methodically started pushing buttons on the control panel to his right, each time asking, “Frank?” as if he’d just heard the bedroom door open late in the night when everyone was supposed to be asleep. The window behind the front seat lowered halfway, the music gone, leaving no sound in the rear compartment except the steady, soothing whir of the tires.

  “Did you say something, Mr. Samson?”

  “How do you get the inter…?”

  “The button marked Intercom, sir.”

  “Right.” He continued talking—not pressing it—raising his voice. “Are we one of those?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thunder Road? Just me?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  “What’s going on?” He paused, certain it had to be bad news. “Do you know why they called me back?”

  The driver didn’t respond.

  “I was on vacation,” he persisted. “You guys always know what’s going on.”

  “Just a driver, sir. And… an occasional flak jacket.”

  Samson shivered at the thought Frank was wearing one of the pale yellow vests that could stop anything capable of being loaded into a hand-held weapon. He made his way, crunched like a Little League catcher, to the seat backing the front, tapping the window. “Put it down all the way, huh?”

  The driver complied.

  “Where did this car come from? It’s nice,” Samson went on, hoping to flatter Frank enough to gain a clue as to why Rosalita—Rosalita herself—had phoned him that morning and told him to report back to Compound. Rosalita, her holier-than-anything-crawling-the-face-of-the-earth self. And he just knew that she was grinning when she ordered him to hang up the vacation and return to the Creek. Exercising the muscle she could flex.

  “Hess & Eisenhardt of Cincinnati,” the driver nodded. “Coach builders since 1892.”

  “You guys get to make some picks this time around?”

  “We had some input into the new fleet, the options. Just let me switch over.”

  He reached to the dashboard and nudged until the word SECURED began to flash above the com cradle like a neon sign on a backwater tavern.

  “This is really nice,” Samson said, kneeling on the seat and easing his head and shoulders into the forward area of the Cadillac. “And smells great.”

  “That’s a universal rule,” Frank laughed. “All new cars gotta smell great.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “The entire interior except the cherry wood is leather. We got these tinted windows that look slate black outside but like normal glass on the inside. DVD-AM/FM-CD-vid-dat-sonic stereo, ten speakers, two monitors…”

  “Gun?”

  “One under your seat, one under mine.” Frank hesitated. “You know how it’s been the past few months? I’m surprised they didn’t put a couple Street Sweepers in the grill, too.”

  Samson sank into the seat and stared out the rear window. In the distance he could see random headlights and tail lights, people coming and going, people following and leading, people he hoped had no idea who he was or where he was. People living simple lives and occupying simple jobs, with simple desires and simple problems. If only he could be like them.

  “How long is this thing?”

  “Ninety inches.”

  “It’s longer than that!”

  “No, no,” the driver chuckled. “That’s how much they added to it. You know, how much they stretched it.”

  “So why’d I get called back?”

  Delta’s voice surfaced again.

  “Chariot Two? Please acknowledge.”

  “Chariot Two. Pelican and I will await your instructions.”

  Something’s up, Samson thought. And it’s got to be something ugly.

  He’d been assigned the code name four years before, and used to get a kick out of thinking about why Security had glued that tag on him. And now he was hearing it again in Delta’s voice, for the first time in his career riding alone as a pole position package. He was going to ask her—one time when they were sitting alone in the cafeteria—just to see what she looked like when she did. That morning she was wearing a red cashmere dress. Carter had advised the day before: “Look. You want to ask her out? Ask her out.” But he’d chickened like a teenager passing on his first vodka and tonic.

  “Frank,” he said as he knelt on the seat and scanned the elaborate electronics. “I want you to know I really appreciate you coming to get me. You’re my favorite driver.”

  “I lost the flip, sir. I wanted the other package,” he replied with a grin. “Everybody wanted the other package.”

  “Eagle, huh?”

  “Better.”

  “Who?”

  “Songbird, sir.”

  “Songbird?” Samson cringed at the new tag, shaking off his apprehension as nothing more than a ghost haunting his house. “I don’t know that one.”

  “Try Angelique Caulfield.”

  “Angelique’s here?”

  “Chariot One.”

  “Yeah,” Samson agreed. “I would have taken her, too.”

  “Well if you want to take her, you’d better do it quick,” the driver chuckled. “Word has it she’s in a load of trouble again.”

  She’s in trouble and they want me back all of the sudden?

  “What, uh, what’s going on?”

  “If you can believe half of what you read in the trades, major problems. Ain’t you been following it? Where you been? A desert island?�
��

  “Close.”

  Samson had been away eight days into the 14 of the disappearing act he’d paid for in premium dollars to the owner of a condo in Destin, Florida. Eight days of nothing but solitude, hours gazing at the blue-green waves of the Gulf wash up on the shore. No television, no radio, no newspapers, no trade papers, no nothing. Getting up past ten, his sleep cavernous and cool, lulled by the water breaking onto the beach five stories below. Beers every night at a dive across the street called The Shrimp Bar, a dozen fresh oysters plus fries for 12 bucks a plate. Playing his favorite tunes on the juke, flirting with a bartender named Wendy, always spinning Springsteen’s “Born to Run” as he left, wondering if she got the lyrical compliment. Shooting Eight Ball with the locals on the seven-foot table and winning most every time. Placing his stick into the pocket closest to the patio as the next mark inserted two-dollar coins into the slot.

  Thanks, Rosalita. Thanks a lot.

  “How big’s the engine?”

  “Eight-point-three liters. Turbo-charged. This thing can fly. You’ll see.”

  “What’s going on with Angelique?”

  “Take a look at your magazines.”

  Samson reached to the rack and removed the contents. Time. Biography. The Wine Spectator. Business Week. Fortune. And there she was on the cover of RCC This Week, the purple headline asking: Fallen Angel? He had no desire to discover what it meant.

  “Chariot Two? Location, please.”

  “Dundee Road westbound, maybe a mile from the Barrington Road intersection.”

  “Proceed to Barrington Road and turn right, head north and we’ll pick you up with the first escort, County. Then proceed to Oasis Three and wait for further instructions. I’m bringing you back to the Stable via Thunder Road and we’ll be at Level Four tonight.”

  “Copy.”

  “And good evening, Pelican.”

  Samson tossed RCC aside and leaned back into the driver’s section as Frank locked the limousine’s five doors.

  Level Four. Thunder Road. Samson grimaced. Something major league was in the works. Bigger than major league. Maybe world league. What an awful way to end a vacation. But with an L4…

  “Can I sit up front with you?”

  “Doors are locked.”

  “How about if I crawl through this window?”

  “Are you serious?” Frank asked, turning to him, the first time their eyes had met since the driver opened the door at Palwaukee.

  “Why not?”

  “I guess it would be okay. Try not to scratch anything, though.”

  Samson removed his windbreaker, boosted through the portal far enough to grasp the front bench and pulled himself in.

  “Chariot Two? Do you have County yet?”

  “Negative. Just about to head north on Barrington Road.”

  As the car made a quick turn, Samson’s ankles locked onto the top of the rear seat. Great. I’ll show up at Compound, Thunder Road, L4, and look like a duffel bag being delivered. Without a sports coat. Without a tie!

  He struggled a moment, finally getting free. Through the windshield he spotted a rotating blue light a few hundred feet ahead. The motorcycle rocketed off the shoulder as they drew closer, both vehicles increasing in speed.

  “I have County, Delta.”

  “Proceed to Oasis Three.”

  “So what’s going on tonight?” Samson asked as he strapped his seat belt.

  “Could be one of two things,” Frank responded as he glanced into the rear-view mirror and adjusted it slightly. “Not involved with Songbird, huh?”

  “Who me?” No one knew. Unless Angelique had said something. But that was crazy. Why would she? His hands were wet. He rubbed them on his jeans. “That’s crazy.”

  “Then it probably has to do with Castro.”

  “Juan? What about him?”

  “He died last night.”

  Samson had seen Castro a few weeks before, sharing coffee and a reminiscence about the old days when everything was optimistic and under control.

  I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. Why Juan? Why now?

  Chariot Two arrived at Oasis Three four minutes later. As soon as the limousine came to a halt, two men Samson recognized from the VG walked to Frank’s window, it going down as they stepped up. One of them looked into the car, said nothing, then the pair returned to their own. Two more County motorcycles and a County squad sat nearby, bringing the bodyguard count up to a comforting seven.

  As if on a signal, the lights of the other vehicles began to flash and revolve. Although Samson was used to seeing an entourage begin, he felt lightheaded and excited. This one was for him and him alone. Had to have something to do with Castro. The two fresh cycles pulled out, followed by the squad, followed by the Chariot, followed by Security, followed by the cop who’d led him to Oasis Three.

  Level Four. Thunder Road, he mused as the rapid acceleration pushed him deeper into the lush bench. Major league. World league. And a pair of jeans and a sport shirt. Great. But perhaps the boss wanted to see him later in the evening. All he needed was ten, 15 minutes tops, to get to his town house and change. Maybe Angelique would get to the Compound first. That would give him plenty of time, unless he wanted to see the two of them together. No. It had to have something to do with Castro’s death. “How about some music?” he said, hypnotized by the parade speeding him home.

  “What’cha want?”

  “Got my favorite Springsteen?”

  “Sure.” Frank set the cursor, a rapid series of numbers appearing on the display screen. “I think it’s number 34,” he added as he reversed then forwarded the sequence until the digits flashed. The limousine filled with cheering. “Live version,” he grinned. “We’ve got all the classics.”

  Samson reached to the volume dial, but the driver stopped him.

  “I gotta be able to hear from Delt. This isn’t a joy ride.”

  He settled back, watching the trees rush by, watching the blue and red lights, wondering again if he’d have time to get back to the house to change and if there was even the slightest chance his recall had something to do with Songbird’s visit.

  “Chariot Two? Escort? The hounds are still at the front door and have also been diverted to Gate Four. You know, they fall for it every time. Chariot Two?”

  “Go ahead, Delta.”

  “I’m bringing you back to Stable through Gate Three.”

  “Born to Run” blasted on until the high fence of Sanctuary Creek appeared in the distance. He sneaked a look at the speedometer. Sixty-five miles an hour.

  “Hold onto that loop there,” Frank cautioned. “I don’t know how fast we’re gonna make the turn.”

  Samson grasped it. They were close, but the darkness—the dash clock telling it was past nine—and the velocity confused him as to where they were along the perimeter. He saw the lead cycles break right and held on as Chariot Two followed the squad through the high gates of the estate, the massive gold SC insignia on one twinkling like a strobe light in response to the flashes rushing past it—the image gone in an instant.

  The line slowed as it crossed the two-lane, cross-shaped bridge over the creek, then eased more as it weaved toward the Stable.

  As his bag was taken out of the trunk and the squad and cycles pulled away, he looked toward Residential and nodded to the SG. “How about if I get back to my house to change then… “

  “You’re expected,” he replied, motioning with his finger that meant ‘now.’ In a moment, the two had walked the distance to the back door. Samson took the bag as one of the two guards on duty said, “Good evening, sir,” and let him in. After the pat down, he led through the hallway to the door of the suite on the main level, then excused himself. Samson knocked twice and Rosalita barked: “It’s open.”

  And there she was at her workstation, dressed in yellow and white as was her habit, her obsession. Two things one could always count on from Rosalita: yellow and white, and a chronic bad attitude. But seeing she occupied tha
t desk—controlling who got through the cherry wood doors just beyond her—she could cop any attitude she wanted. At least Clarence was there, too, sitting beside the inner office. Winking hello over the top of his Sun-Times. Samson wondered if Chariot One had arrived, who was behind the closed doors and how long it would take to find out.

  “Nice of you to find time to join us this evening, Mr. Samson,” she sneered as she checked her watch. “Nine-Thirty. Didn’t make your flight? It was scheduled to leave Pensacola at 11, wasn’t it? Have to take a helicopter instead? One last dip in the ocean?”

  Samson clenched his teeth, dropped his bag and eyed his friend. “Hey, I finally listened to that disc you gave me. Not bad.

  “Told you you’d dig it,” Clarence replied as he eased to Samson’s side, the gold-plated Colt .45 automatic in his shoulder holster glistening. “You really did?”

  “Why are you so late?”

  “Yeah, I really did,” Samson said, ignoring her. “But they gotta do something with the name. Who’s gonna sign ’em with that?”

  “Southern Lights Records,” Clarence replied. “A week, no, two weeks ago.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Dead seriously. Now I know me two sets of celebrities.”

  “Why are you so late?”

  Samson mumbled, “Mechanical and thunderstorm,” then added, “Southern Lights? That’s pretty heavy duty!”

  “And you know they gonna ask to provide that high level se-cur-ity.”

  “You’re already under contract.”

  “Yeah, well, somewhere down the road when I ain’t needed around here no more.

  Samson tugged his shoulder. “Plan on at least six years. Then maybe you can go do your rock and roll thing.” He paused. “But they have to change the name. Screaming Boogies?”

  “It hip, Terry. It real hip!”

  One of the cherry wood doors opened and Mitchell stormed out—lips pursed—his awkward gait carrying him through the waiting room. He seemed to snarl, then made his way to the exit. Slamming it hard.