Free China Jewel by Thomas Hollyday

traffic.
    “I like to get there,” she said.
    “I noticed,” he grinned. “That’s all right. It’s not a deal breaker to me.”
    She smiled, “I thought you Army Rangers liked danger.”
    “Not when someone else is driving,” he said.
    “Women want control too. I grew up in Southern Maryland racing my father’s Ford pickup against the boys who lived down the road.”
    “Did you win?”
    “Always. Best they had was a Chevy.”
    “Anybody end up in one of those deep roadside ditches?”
    “They did.”
    Cutter touched her arm as they repeated together, laughing, “They had a Chevy.”
    They left the turnpike at the exit to Staten Island. Their destination was the village of Narrows Beach. Beside them was the blue water channel into New York harbor. The span of the Verrazano Bridge arching to Coney Island stretched on the horizon north of them. Cutter took a moment to reread his last Blackberry text. Doc Jerry had written good news. The Peregrine was moving fast and had reached a point about one thousand miles east of Recife, Brazil.
    Cutter’s attention was drawn to a car in the rear view mirror. “That guy is still behind us.”
    “Who?” asked Katy.
    “A red Honda has followed us from Maryland,” he said.
    “You didn’t say anything before,” she said.
    “You needed to concentrate on the driving.”
    “Who do you think he is?”
    Cutter shrugged. “Well, whoever, he’s been behind us and he’s gotten off at our exit. Here,” he said, leaning toward her, “Pull off, park and let him go by.”
    She stopped and a red coupe rushed by. Cutter could not see the driver who was hidden behind tinted windows. The vehicle went to the end of the street, turned right and was gone.
    “It has a bent rear fender,” she said. “Could not spot the license plate.”
    “Let’s go,” said Cutter. “You’re a good detective.”
    “What street do we want?” he said, thrashing the folds of a map as he tried to find their location. He looked again for the car but the Honda did not reappear.
    “Hemlock Street.”
    “This map doesn’t have that street. Too bad you don’t have navigation.” He folded it and they watched street signs. The macadam surface changed to tar-covered dirt and finally to packed sand. They were almost at a dead end beside the beach. Katy pulled over. Outside the car dozens of shoreline visitors strolled in colorful shorts and bikinis.
    “I’ll ask,” said Cutter. He spotted an elderly man in a red shirt and dark shorts, reading a newspaper.
    Cutter stopped in front of him. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m guessing you live around here.”
    “Why’s that?” The man spoke with a drawl as he looked up from his seat on a wooden bench.
    “You’re not interested in the beach.”
    “You got that right. Don’t look at it. Just a place to read the paper until the sun gets too hot. Then I go home. You people lost?”
    “We want to find Hemlock Street.”
    “Most of ‘em wants the ocean. Can’t tell them it’s really the harbor. They don’t want to hear it. Anyway, Hemlock, that’s in the old part of town. It’s near the quarantine memorial, where they used to keep the immigrants.” The man stood up, gave directions and pointed. He added, “Building is gone. Ain’t much to visit. All run down now. People forget.”
    The house Katy wanted was the last in a series of small two-story unpainted wood buildings. No sidewalk existed and several abandoned cars stood rusting in the overgrown weeds. Children with ill-fitting clothes ran barefoot among the vehicles pausing only to stare quickly at Katy and Cutter.
    In front of the house was a mound of dirt covered with weeds. What remained of a rotten wooden sign was bent over in tall grass, its message unreadable. Cutter identified a few straggling white perennials among the green.
    They ascended the rickety unpainted front porch. Three rusted mailboxes hung by the faded diamond-paned door. The top one was for Miss Mary Tolchester,