One Mile Under. Andrew Gross
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his wounds and bring himself back to life and just extended it kind of indefinitely. Now the wounds had healed; the dime-sized holes where the bullets had found him were now just scar tissue, mostly hidden by the tan. But what do you do when you’ve brought down a worldwide financial conspiracy whose reach led to the doorstep of the president’s own cabinet? Become a talking head on the TV news shows? Go on the speakers’ circuit? Just sail? These past two months, he couldn’t answer that question.
The first month, he didn’t even bring it to mind.
The month Naomi had joined him.
Hauck gazed out in his trunks and shades at the exquisite turquoise sea, white waves lapping gently onto the shore, from the tiny cove he was moored in with no other boat in sight, and didn’t care that there was no breeze.
That first month they just drifted. He didn’t want money or fame. He’d just wanted to help people. That’s why he became a cop in the first place, right? After the death of his youngest daughter. That’s how he put the pieces together back then. How he made his amends. But there were never enough amends. So he just sailed. Until it found him. He knew one day it would.
The day this came down:
“Ty, I’m not sure where this email finds you. But I need your help …”
He had spent the past two months on a thirty-eight-foot skiff he’d rented in Tortola, bonefishing and just sailing around, letting his beard grow out. After he and Naomi Blum exposed the Gstaad Group and helped bring down the secretary of the Treasury, Thomas Keaton, who’d conspired to mastermind the series of events that brought on the worldwide financial meltdown. He just couldn’t take a slap on the back for a job well done and a bonus check, and go back to his desk in Greenwich, Connecticut. Even the high-profile job that it was, handling corporate and governmental security issues with global connections. He couldn’t just sit in a larger office, gladhanding prospective clients, using his newfound notoriety to land new business like some ex-home-run hitter at a baseball card show. The money didn’t mean much to him, either, a guy who always figured he’d retire on a detective’s pension.
The first three weeks, Naomi was with him. From her small office at the Office of Financial Terrorism at the Treasury Department in Washington, D.C., they followed the trail of Hauck’s friend April Glassman’s murder all the way to the top of Naomi’s very department, to the president’s right-hand man. And once the dust settled and the headlines stopped, the wounds healed, they sailed for a month from isle to isle. They let the boat just drift in the open sea and made love on the deck, on the forestairs, under the stars, whenever the urge hit, and wherever it took them. They pulled into small, festive ports and ate spiny lobsters or tilefish on the beach and danced to reggae bands in thatched-roofed bars, full of Red Stripe beer and Pyrat Rum.
Sometimes they would just sit on deck and watch the sunset, or the sunrise. And wonder why real life had to be any different.
Then she went back to D.C. Now, head of the Financial Terrorism office.
And he just continued to drift. What was next? What had meaning to him? She would send him texts; some cute, recalling their time together. Some sexy. She would refer to his scars and the many times he’d been shot. He’d write back that he loved to play the five chords from the opening of Philip Glass’s Music in the Shape of a Square that were tattooed on her butt. The result of a Princeton degree in musicology, before she went into the Marines.
Now he thought of her diving naked into the turquoise sea or dancing in cutoff jeans and a bikini top. He had the time of his life with her. Free. Neither wanted any attachments. She was a rising star with the world in front of her. He … he’d been around a bit longer and had cheated death more than one time.
Then the texts grew shorter and less frequent. She got involved in new cases. Told him to come back. And still he drifted. He’d received a ton of emails from people who wanted to meet with him. From Tom Foley, the CEO of Talon: When are you coming back? From his daughter, Jessie. Now sixteen: How long will u b down there, Dad? Have you gone mental??? Now he only checked his email once a week. He stopped doing his push-ups and crunches. His beard got thicker. If it was another month, then it would be another month. He just fished and sailed.
And then this message came.
Ted Whalen was his roommate at Bates College, where they both played football. Hauck was a running back, set all kinds of school records; records long broken. Ted was a tight end who mostly blocked and rarely caught a pass. The two of them, along with Ted’s pretty girlfriend, Judy, were fixtures there. Eventually they married. Ted went on to become a successful orthopedic surgeon. At first out in Colorado, interning at some famous clinic out there. Then after their marriage fell apart, at Brigham and Women’s back in Boston.
The message said that his daughter Danielle had gotten into a bit of trouble in Colorado, where she was living. Hauck was Danielle’s godfather. He remembered the day she was born, though truth was, he hadn’t seen her in years. He had gotten word a few years back that Judy had died out west. Complications from cancer. The last, sad punctuation point stamped on his college career.
Ted wrote: “I’m in Chile on a teaching sabbatical, otherwise I’d be on a plane myself. But from what I hear this might be more in your field of expertise than mine. Please go, Ty, if you can. I think it’s urgent.”
The last time he saw Danielle she was doing snowboard tricks at Mad River Glen in Vermont, where she and her dad visited one year. She was maybe thirteen. He’d promised Ted and Judy he would always be there for her, should anything ever happen. And that was before Judy got sick. Then they all drifted apart.
He wrote him back. “I’m on my way.” He didn’t even ask for a reason. The mountains would be a welcome change, maybe help him figure it out. Plus he owed them; owed him. Once a Bobcat, always a Bobcat, right?
He had made a vow.
Anyway, he was ready. Hauck looked out at the lit-up, purple horizon. Another gorgeous sunset. His last. He felt the old flicker in his blood start up, like an old engine coming to life. That spark he always felt on the job when he suddenly saw the mosaic of something larger than what the facts showed start to come together; when through the fog of misdirection and cover-up he saw with total clarity where a case was leading. That second sense. His muscles ached; but suddenly they felt ready. He put down his Red Stripe and stretched out on the deck. He started doing crunches. One, two, three …
He stopped at a hundred. Then he went downstairs and looked at himself in the mirror and took out his razor.
It had been too long.
The following morning, Hauck left his boat at a marina he knew on St. Kitts, caught an eight-seater prop for the half-hour jaunt over to St. Maarten, where he was the last one on the 11:30 A.M. to Miami, which connected late that afternoon to a United flight to Denver. He spent the night at the Aloft hotel near the airport, and by six the next morning, he’d rented a car and was on his way up Interstate 70 to Aspen.
He’d been out here a couple of times years before to ski. Once, back in college, where he and four friends crowded into a classmate’s family’s two-bedroom condo at Copper Mountain. Hauck’s folks were working-class people, and at Bates he worked a twenty-hour-a-week job on top of studying and football. Back then, he couldn’t have even afforded a cheeseburger in Aspen, never mind a place to stay or even the lift tickets. He remembered how beautiful the ride up was: the new airport cutting around Denver, passing Golden, where he always wanted to stop off and see the Coors brewery, then into the foothills with the old mining towns of Idaho Springs and Georgetown, their steep canyons and buffalo herd patches until he reached Loveland Pass at twelve thousand feet. Patches of snow were still visible as he emerged from the Eisenhower Tunnel.
He made it to Carbondale in just under three hours. Ted had said to talk to the chief of police there. A guy named Dunn. It was a small town in the shadow of a massive, lone mountain with outdoor shops and a