Mark One Read online

  “I’ve a suggestion. I know a place, along the coast, well before you reach Jackson. It’s a small fishing town—village, really, it’s far too small to be a town. Well, it used to be a fishing village. The channels are all silted up and no one wants to pay for dredging them. Now it’s almost deserted except for a few families, people who’ve lived there for years. The population doubles when holiday-makers arrive. I think it’d be safe for you. I’ll draw you a map—it’s near Jekyll Sound.” Robin sipped her coffee, her eyes on Mark.

  “Why are you suggesting this—?”

  “Sadie trusted you.” As far as Robin was concerned, her pony’s trust was the only reference she needed.

  “I was correct, you really are crazy.”

  “Come on, let’s get you organized. You need a vehicle—another motorcycle? You have some cash?”

  “Yes. To both.”

  “Craig’s List might have some bikes for sale, locally. Or we could go into Rock Hill—Draggers should have something. They’re open Sundays. I’ll take you when you’re ready.”

  ***

  Chapter 10

  As he approached the outskirts of Jekyll Yards, Mark slowed his replacement motorcycle. Jekyll Yards was on the mainland opposite Jekyll Island. It was a strip development with all the houses seemingly built along either side of the main road, which ended in a dead end where an old boatyard fronted the estuary. This had been a thriving small town, according to Robin, before upstream diversions and major works across the swamp plains had caused the local estuary to fill with mud, reducing the depth of the navigable channel so that only smaller boats could reach the dock and the surviving boatyard. As a result, with very little local business activities, the village had stagnated.

  He stopped the motorcycle and checked the notes provided by Robin. He was halfway along the row of houses, and needed the older, red-roofed house on the right. This was his destination. The garden had been neglected and palings were missing from the front fence. A Toyota Prius was parked in the drive leading to the garage, which was separate from the house. The vehicle was new, in contrast to the somewhat dilapidated garage. He carefully parked his bike outside the house, hung his helmet over the handlebars, and walked up to the front door. He carried his backpack. He lifted and dropped the old door knocker and the thump seemed to echo through the house.

  After a few moments the door slowly opened and a cautious face appeared. “Yes,” the voice was old. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ma’am,” he spoke softly. “I am looking for a room, and heard you might rent out your garage.”

  “Hmmm. Who told you that nonsense?”

  “A young lady called Robin.”

  “Indeed? Very well, come inside.” She opened the door wide.

  Mark stepped inside, into an old, old world. The transition was unexpected. The interior of the house probably had not been redecorated for decades. However, everything was spotlessly clean, scrubbed, washed and polished. A hallway, wooden-floored, led down the center of the house, with rooms off to each side. Most of the doors were closed, although he could see into a living room, with old furniture and furnishings, and faded black and white photographs lined the walls. As he followed his hostess to the kitchen in the rear of the house, he could hear a growling sound, increasing in intensity, as he got closer.

  When he entered the kitchen, a large black and brown Rottweiler raised herself up and growled even more deeply. Mark stopped and looked down at the dog. Her growling stopped and her tail began to thump, her ears forward.

  “Good, she likes you,” said the old lady. “That’s Betsy. Call me Miss Victoria, everyone does. Your name—?”

  “Mark.” He shook the proffered hand. “Mark Nicholls.” He reached down and scratched the dog’s ears. She thumped her tail harder on the linoleum floor.

  “Please sit, Mark. Now, tell me what you need.”

  “Yes ma’am.” The old lady frowned at him. “Miss Victoria. I just need a room, with a kitchen and a bathroom. Robin said your garage had been converted and she thought I might like to stay there. Perhaps for six months?”

  “It will cost you $100. Can you afford that?”

  Mark was startled. “Each week?”

  “No, indeed not. $100 a month.”

  “Oh. Very good. I can pay you for six months now, if you like.” He reached for his wallet and counted off six hundred dollars.

  “Are you sure you want to pay before seeing the garage?” Miss Victoria asked as she folded up the notes and placed them in her tea caddy.

  “Robin described it and said it would suit me. I’m sure it will.”

  “Hmmm. Let me show you, now. Do you need car parking?”

  “No, ma’am. I mean Miss Victoria. I ride a motorcycle.”

  “You can store it at the back of the garage. There is a little lean-to that’ll shelter it when we have rain. Stay, Betsy.”

  Mark thought the accommodation was more than adequate. The garage had been converted into two main rooms, a bedroom, and a living room, with a small kitchen, and bathroom. The result was well-utilized space. The furniture, although old, appeared to be comfortable. A small television set occupied a corner table.

  “Miss Victoria, are you sure the rent’s $100 a month?”

  “Is it too much” She looked concerned.

  “No, it seems far too low.”

  “Don’t be silly. Who else would rent it, in this rundown town?”

  Mark had no answer to her question. After his new landlady had shown him how everything worked and described the village and its inhabitants, he moved his motorcycle to the rear of the garage and sheltered it under the lean-to. The back yard was large. He estimated it was over an acre, and it contained remnants of an old orchard. Trees were starting to bud and old lank grass seemed to be strangling small shrubs, while a row of rose bushes leaned against the house, in dire need of pruning. Miss Victoria’s focus was on the interior of her home, not on her back garden.

  He carried his backpack inside his new accommodation and emptied its contents onto the kitchen table. He had his laptop and three hard drives rescued from LifeLong, cash, and his collection of personal papers. He had only one change of clothes. He would need to do some shopping. At the bottom of the bag was his Glock, with spare ammunition and cleaning cloths. His task now was to find suitable hiding places—he did not think Miss Victoria would like to see the weapon on her tenant’s kitchen table.

  ~~~

  The village contained probably not more than two hundred houses, a number of which were unoccupied. At the end of the road, there was a small diner overlooking the estuary. There were no cars parked outside. Mark decided he would try the lunch menu and stepped inside. There were only four people sitting at tables; two of the diners, probably from the boatyard, were dressed in work overalls, and an older couple, presumably locals, sat together. The server was middle-aged, and she had a tired face, with more lines than it should have room for.

  “Welcome. My name’s Ellie,” she said, her voice on automatic. “Visiting?” She handed Mark a menu, its corners burred from use.

  “Maybe for a while.” He sat and studied the menu and decided a hamburger would suffice. He added coffee to his order and sat and waited.

  The plate, when the waitress placed it in front of him, was overflowing with fries. He enjoyed the hamburger and left most of the remainder. Sipping his coffee, he contemplated his immediate future. He should explore the village, and the nearby trails, to plan how he could cope in case his enemies discovered his refuge. Also, he wanted to explore the boatyard, as much for curiosity than anything else. He finished his meal and left a large tip with his payment. The other diners had already left. He had not realized it was already midafternoon.

  Mark stood on the wharf adjacent to the boat yard, and examined the eclectic collection of boats moored at buoys and on land, the latter either for repair or for winter shelter. There were small launches, sailing boats, an old fishing boat with rusted fittings, a home
built trimaran with its plywood splitting and peeling, and other boats or boat skeletons in some stage of disrepair. A large old yacht, a ketch, was moored against one end of the wharf and appeared to be part way through a rebuild. An even older sailing boat was moored on its far side and to his unskilled assessment, was in a total state of decay. He walked along the wharf to the ketch, which was sitting slightly lopsided as it rested on a mud bank beside the wharf. The tide was ebbing, and black mud flats had begun to surface across the estuary. An anxious seagull hovered overhead, and another one perched on a rusty iron bollard, eyeing him hopefully. Someone had left a fishing rod and a box of fishing gear beside another bollard, and fish scales decorated the adjacent rough timbers of the wharf. Mark stepped around the rod. He was not sure he would like to eat fish caught in these waters.

  He stood still for a moment; suddenly aware someone was watching him. He looked around. An old man was sitting under an awning in the stern of the ketch, watching Mark with an idle curiosity. Mark stepped closer.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted the old man. His reply was a grunt. Mark assumed it was a positive sign. “This is your yacht?”

  “A bit of an exaggeration, to call her a yacht.” The old man coughed and spat over the stern.

  “Well, I was being cautious,” replied Mark. “I suspect you’ve a lot more work to do. Mind if I have a look?”

  “Go ahead. Be careful, there’re loose timbers and nails everywhere.”

  Mark stepped on board and walked towards the bow of the boat. He stopped at the main mast and looked around. After checking the state of the deck, he decided it was not safe to go any further—there were too many gaping holes in the timber. He turned and went back to the old man, still sitting under the awning.

  “Too risky,” Mark commented. “When do you expect to finish?”

  The old man laughed. “M’name’s Tom.” He held out his hand and Mark shook it, responding with his name. Tom continued. “It could be what you’d say is a lifetime job. M’lifetime, anyway.”

  Mark smiled at the answer. He privately thought it would be simpler to build a new yacht. “What is it—I mean, she?”

  “She’s an old sailing barge, well past her natural lifetime. My efforts aren’t going to alter that. However, it keeps me busy, and she provides me with a home. My real yacht is due back on the tide. I charter her out to people I know, and who can sail. I’ll take you out, sometime, if you’re going to be here for a while?”

  “I just rented Miss Victoria’s garage for six months, so I’ll be here for a while.”

  “Good lad. We’ll go sailing.”

  ***

  Chapter 11

  Mark spent the second day at his new home working in Miss Victoria’s garden. He had found some gardening tools and was expending energy on mowing the unkempt lawn, in some places wielding an old scythe to remove the heavier growth which the lawnmower could not handle. The Rottweiler, Betsy, was supervising from a safe distance. She seemed to be aware the wielder of the scythe was more than an amateur, and injury was likely if she approached too close to the swooping blade. Miss Victoria watched from a kitchen window, and when Mark appeared to be in need of refreshment, she brought out a pitcher of cold tea, sweetened to provide more energy. She knew she needed to encourage the young man working in her garden.

  The weather was warmer, and threats of blizzards and snow were far away. Spring was trying to arrive and soon would accelerate the growth of grass and trees. Mark thought he could spend productive time and energy on the garden, to help it into summer. It was as though he could hear it crying for care and attention. He stopped for the offered refreshment, carefully placing the scythe away from the old outdoor table and chairs, which he had dragged over to a sunny spot.

  “Thank you, Mark. My garden takes a lot of maintenance. Sometime I can persuade my family to help, but they don’t visit often enough. All of the young men have moved away, to find work.”

  “I’m enjoying the exercise,” Mark said as he sipped the sweetened tea. “Too much sitting around’s no good for me.”

  Miss Victoria sat at the table, on the other side from Mark. She folded her hands, almost primly. “Now tell me, young man, what’re you doing here, in Jekyll Yards?”

  Mark knew this question would come, sometime. “I-I suffered a very sudden family loss. Both my parents have just passed away. I was talking with Robin and she mentioned that you might rent your apartment. We thought I could spend some time here, to recover.”

  “And you arrived with just your backpack,” Miss Victoria said. “I see you did some shopping in Brunswick and purchased some clothes.”

  “Yes, I went to Brunswick and did some shopping, first thing this morning. My bike was loaded, both trips.”

  “I was watching television this morning,” continued Miss Victoria. “There was a horrible shooting in Virginia. Some paramilitary group attacked and killed some people. The attackers in turn were killed. Rightly so, judging from the FBI news releases and interviews. They say a young man is missing. Mark someone.”

  “Mark’s a common name.”

  He tried to keep his voice level as he was again impacted by memories of Dr. Otto and Dr. Anna, shot to death in their bedroom. The glass of sweetened tea in his hand shook and he placed the glass back on the table. He hid his hands.

  “Harrumph. A coincidence.” Miss Victoria was neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “They say the young man might still be in danger from whoever was behind the attack.” She smiled. “You’re doing a marvelous job with my garden. Tom said he chatted with you yesterday. He thought you were a very nice young man. This is a safe town, you know.”

  Mark was intrigued at the subject changes in the old lady’s conversation.

  “Yes, I like it,” he affirmed. “It seems to be very peaceful. I need that.”

  ~~~

  This first morning in Jekyll Yards, his thoughts were with Dr. Otto and Dr. Anna, or at least with concerns of how he could ensure a suitable service and resting place for their ashes. Morning news channels had replayed interviews with law enforcement officials at the laboratory complex site, and he thought he recognized MayAnn Freewell, and oddly, Schmidt, in the group of supporting officials. The news item had not been informative, simply affirming that the FBI was doing everything they could to track down whoever was behind the attack.

  He needed to contact MayAnn and possibly Schmidt, he thought, even if there was risk of exposure as a result. He rode his motorcycle into Brunswick and, using cash, purchased a cheap cell phone and ten dollars of ‘pay as you go’ airtime. He returned to his apartment, and plugged in the phone to charge its battery. He was being extra cautious, and he would not switch on the cell phone until he was a hundred miles or more from Jekyll Yards.

  Mark spent the remainder of that day working in the garden, with an occasional shopping trip to nearby Brunswick as he realized there still were things he needed. It was late afternoon when the cell phone was ready to use. He headed away from Jekyll Yards on his motorcycle and stopped part way along a side road off Interstate 95, close to Jacksonville. He had MayAnn’s card, which she had given him at the end of Schmidt’s training course. He dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  He recognized her voice. “MayAnn, this is Mark Midway.”

  “Wow. Schmidt and I were just talking about you. Where are you? Can we meet?”

  “I think it’d be far too dangerous. Whoever murdered my parents will be trying to track me, I’m sure. They must want me dead.”

  “I understand. I can offer FBI protection—”

  “I appreciate that, but I feel safer away from everyone. So thank you, but no thank you. Have you any idea who—?” He paused.

  “No, not yet. We’ve identified the attackers, they’re all ex-military. Now we’re trying to discover who hired them.”

  “Thanks. Now—I do need a favor.”

  “Yes?”

  “My parents—Dr. Otto and Dr. Anna. I can’t arrange a funer
al or attend a ceremony for them, it’d be too dangerous. Can you help? Not as FBI, but as a friend?”

  “Let me talk to Schmidt for a moment—he’s wondering who I’m talking to.”

  “OK.”

  Mark could hear a murmur of voices in the background. He trusted MayAnn and hoped she was not trying to trace his location.

  “Mark!” It was Schmidt. “We cleared the room. You’re now on speaker. You OK?”

  “Yes. MayAnn’s the only person I’ve contacted. I’m using a cheap cell phone and I’ll dump it after we’re through here. Schmidt, I need to know that my parents are properly dealt with. Can you or MayAnn help?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll look after that for you,” assured Schmidt. He and Mark discussed the arrangements Mark thought suitable. Cremation, a simple memorial service, and later, when the investigation had concluded, their ashes to be scattered around the LifeLong complex grounds.

  “No, as far as I know, we have no family members to contact,” Mark replied to Schmidt’s question. “They were very reserved about their background details,” he added. “When I asked, they each said they had no family left. Their total focus was LifeLong, and their only friends were employees.”

  “All right,” said Schmidt. “I’ll make those arrangements for you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  “Now—MayAnn and I want to meet with you. We’ve been working through the events of last Saturday, and it’s all very complex. We do need your version of what happened. What do you say?”

  “Schmidt, I’m very reluctant—let me think about it. I want to finish this call, in case it’s being tracked. No, not by you. It’s just that those people had a drone flying over LifeLong, which means they have a very long reach. I’ll call you. In a few days.” Mark disconnected the call. He removed the almost fully charged battery and dropped the cell phone into a nearby creek before he rode back onto the Interstate.

  ~~~

  He spent a second day in Miss Victoria’s garden, and eventually, he was satisfied with his efforts. The lawn was mowed and trimmed, the trees looked better, and even the rose bushes seemed to appreciate his attention. He had more shopping to do, but that could wait until the weekend, he thought, as he walked to the diner at the end of the road.