Dropping his coin, he punched out a random set of numbers and listened to a recording say his call could not be completed as dialed. By that time the lawyer had dialed as well. Parker turned his back to the phone so that his free ear was on Doyle and his eyes could be on Fallon.
It was then he saw Johnny G. He could barely believe it but there he was. Parker knew that he'd been had.
On the sidewalk, just across from Michael's inn, Moon saw what looked like a domestic dispute. A big woman, dressed in robe and slippers, had a smaller man by the hair and was whaling on him, cussing him, trying to kick him. The man broke away but tripped over a bike. She got him again.
Moon slowed to a crawl, unwilling to get caught up in this. But the woman, he realized, was black. The smaller man was not. They seemed an unlikely couple. A prowler, maybe? She caught him looking through her window?
The man tried to kick her and got wrenched off his feet. Now he's yelling for help. And help must be coming, thought Moon, because she suddenly let out a yip and swung to face whatever else was moving in on her. The violence of her move tore the little man free and sent him toppling over a fence into someone's front garden. The man hollered in pain. Branches were sticking to his back and shoulders. He must have landed in thorns.
Moon saw no one else at first. Then he saw the shadow. The shadow stepped out, almost to the sidewalk, and did a nervous little dance between her and the man she'd just flung to the brambles. He wasn't so sure how to handle her either. Moon saw that his face was masked by a scarf. Round his waist he wore some sort of tool belt. Moon's thought was that they might be burglars working the Water Street inns.
But burglars don't like to go armed because it's twice as much time if they're caught. This one was armed. He was pulling a knife from that tool belt. Knife, hell. He was pulling a short Jap sword.
Moon wanted to shout, try to scare him off. But just then the woman reached down for that bike. She lifted it by the handle bars and seat and commenced to swing it at the man all in black. The man dodged her, tried to slash at her, but he couldn't reach past the wheels.
Crouched low, Moon broke into a silent run.
Parker said, “Take the call, Mom. I'll hold.”
He said this into his own dead phone and tried to look bored as Doyle, not a foot away, punched out a credit card number. But a cold, calm fury had enveloped him.
Those lying wop bastards had suckered him. Yeah, well, let them enjoy the moment because tonight, one way or the other, Fat Julie's little brother is going to die.
With that thought, he glanced back at the Mercedes, half expecting to see Julie climbing out of it as well. Half wishing that he would. But it's better this way. This way he'd have the satisfaction of calling him tomorrow or the next day, saying, “Yeah, fuckface, it was me killed your little brother. Next I'm coming after your kids.”
Not that he'd bother to make good the threat. He'd be in his new life. But that dago would never have another day's peace.
Parker listened as Doyle called his wife. “You're okay? . . . We're okay, we're with Michael now . . . No ... No, Moon's still in the hospital here, we'll go see him in the morning . . . Yeah, he's fine. Michael says he's out of danger.”
Hospital? Here? Parker had no idea what that was about but the words “out of danger” means it must have been serious. Maybe he got burned trying to torch another house, maybe another stroke. Either way, though, he's out of the picture. That's too bad in one way. This could have been a sweep.
Doyle finished with his wife. He made a second call to someone named Eddie and said, “I'm glad I caught you. Look, I need a sheet on someone.”
He said the name “Megan Cole” and spelled it. He looked back toward her as he spoke. “Middle to late twenties, lives on a boat in Woods Hole, Mass. Here's the registration number.”
Parker saw that he was reading a set of numbers and letters off the front end of her boat. All the boats had them.
“Start with the Coast Guard,” Doyle was saying, “see if the boat's in that name. I want credit history, priors, if any, and she's had some press so check that, too. Oh, and she's supposed to have worked with the Massachusetts State Police . . . never mind how . . . see what they say. Also check with—”
He stopped short, gave a tired nod. Eddie must have said, “Brendan, don't tell me my job.”
Eddie, Parker realized, must be a skip-tracer. All lawyers use them.
Why the girl was so important, why Doyle didn't seem to trust her, Parker didn't know. All he cared about at the moment was that she had this boat, they were all going to meet on it, and they had no clue that he was parked just behind it.
But just now, for a second or two, he almost thought the girl had spotted him. She had climbed up into the cockpit, handed two beers to Fallon who is huddled with Johnny G., who is flipping through the pages of that notebook he carries.
Johnny G. stopped reading when he saw her approach. He covered the notebook with his hand. Parker took that to mean that the girl is not in this. She turned and started back down the hatch but suddenly she stopped. She seemed confused. Now her eyes were darting all over the waterfront as if she hears someone calling her but can't place the source. Now she's looking up at these phones. She seemed to be looking right at him.
But no. Who she's looking at is Doyle. Looking daggers at him. She must have somehow figured why he's up here making calls. She brings both hands to her face, gives what looks like a sigh. Fallon's asking her what's wrong. She shakes her head, waves him off, climbs back down below.
Good, thought Parker. One less pair of eyes. Now if those two would just go down after her, he could take Doyle right here. March him into the shower room, leave him dead in one of the stalls, leave the water running on him so no one would look in. Then call Hector and Tami, get them down here, finish this and go.
Doyle hung up his phone. He started back, but stopped and turned toward a door marked Men. A toilet stall would do. Parker was about to follow when a couple of college kids walked in after Doyle. Parker waited, lit another cigarette, and an inspiration struck him.
Fire. Fire was the way to do it. We burn them, boat and all.
He tapped out the number of Hector's cellular.
Come on, schmuck. Answer.
We have two extra gas cans on board. We have empties of Snapple Iced Tea, thin glass, good for Molotov cocktails. Nothing panics a crowd like explosions and fire. Lots of running and screaming and yelling. Hey, Baron? What do you think? Is this worth a bonus or not?
Hector's not picking up. Or he's shut off the ring.
Parker broke the connection. He'll go pour the gas himself, have it ready. Let Doyle take his piss and go back. It's no good to kill him and have Fallon come looking for him before they have a chance to set this up.
Okay, thought Parker, let's think this out.
Fire is noisy. People scream and run. If we have to use guns that will cover the sound. But no automatic weapons, no blasting away with 9 millimeters. We use strictly the .22s. Against all that racket they'll sound like Rice Krispies.
Tami will toss the bombs. He can light them in the parking lot and throw them from there. One into the cockpit, then one down the hatch, and a couple more into the crowd. He, Parker, will wait on the dock to pop anyone who makes it off.
Parker nodded, satisfied.
You guys like fires? You like burning houses? I'll show you a fucking fire.
He flicked his butt and started back down toward the dock.
Dear lord, here's another one, thought Lena Mayfield. A black man, loping up the street. She raised the bike high, still fending off the shadow man, but ready to swing it when the black man got in range. The subway man was back on his feet but he was thrashing around in that garden as if he dropped something in the bushes. He found it. Looks like a ditty bag on a belt. Oh, my, thought Lena. He's pulling a gun out. The gun got stuck on the zipper. He tugged at it, cussing. Just then a beeper in his belt went off.
The black man hear
d it, saw the gun. He veered in just a hair, snatched at that gun, ditty bag and all. The subway man never saw him coming. But he saw that gun leave his hands, float up, then smash back down across his nose. Now he's falling back into that bush and the black man hardly broke his stride. He's no friend to these two, she realized.
“Throw it,” he said. “Throw the bike.”
Lena hesitated. She knew he meant throw it at the shadow man, that he meant to go in behind it, but the bike was her only protection. Too late now. Shadow man backed away, shifted his knife to his other hand, and whizzed something shiny at the black man. The black man tried to spin from it but it caught him high on the shoulder. It stuck there. The black man pulled it free, tossed it away, kept coming. Lena saw what it was when it bounced. It was one of those throwing stars from kung fu movies.
The beeper in the bush was still beeping.
Shadow man is dancing now, flicking his knife. He's making squealy Chinese noises like from those same movies. Black man slows and stops. He doesn't look afraid. It's more like he's thinking this over. He has that gun, still mostly in the ditty bag, but he doesn't seem to want to use it. Shadow man tries two of those karate kicks, the ones where you spin, but all the black man did was sort of turn his cheek and they missed.
It was then that Lena saw the plastic bracelet on his wrist, the kind they give hospital patients.
“You'd be Moon,” she blurted.
He glanced at her, startled. Shadow man froze where he stood.
Lena knew, full well, that this was no time to visit. But with nobody moving for a second just now, she might as well say who's who.
“I'm Lena. Friend of Michael's. Man you just hit? He's the one, last winter, tried to push Michael in the path of a—”
That's all she got out because shadow man's eyes, peering out from that cloth, had gone real wide and crazy. He backed up two steps, reached to his belt, and pulled out one of those sticks-on-a-chain things. He shook the sticks loose, whirled them over his head, and yelled, “Ay-yee-yah.” Must be Chinese for “Charge” because, yelling it, he launched himself through the air, feet-first, at the face of the black man called Moon.
Lena had always wondered about kung fu and the like. It seemed to depend an awful lot on the other man standing still. She did not dwell on that now, however, because she had launched her own body into a grunting hammer-throw pivot and hurled the bike into shadow man's flight path.
The bike caught him flush between the legs. Worse, the gear assembly did. He gave a yip only dogs could hear, did a full midair flip, and came down on his head with a splat. The bike flipped with him like it was welded to him. Moon was on him before he could bounce. He snatched those sticks and wrapped the chain around his throat. He crossed the two sticks, using one as a lever, and was about to snap his neck when Lena gasped aloud.
Moon hesitated. He glanced up the street. A block distant, he saw people on foot and they were watching, afraid to approach. Down the street, just behind him, he heard the sound of feet on pavement. The man from the bush was running away, stumbling blindly, both hands to the nose Moon had smashed. Moon cursed himself. He gestured toward the Taylor House.
“Are there any more inside?” he asked quietly.
“House is empty. Just these. Man who came on this bike, they left him over by that tree.”
Moon eased his grip on the sticks. Lena saw that it didn't matter. Shadow man's eyes were rolled up in his head. His last breath on earth came bubbling up from his chest. Moon picked up the ditty, tore the gun free, and walked quickly to the lump at the base of the tree. She watched as he felt the man's throat. There was no life there either. He looked up at her.
“Lena? Where might Michael be?”
For the first time, she noticed the blood. It had spread down Moon's shirt and was starting to soak through his jacket where the star had hit him. There seemed far too much for a simple puncture.
“That thing stuck you good, Moon.”
“Lena . . . where is he?”
She gripped his lapel. “First we'll see to that cut.”
He was gone a minute later, slipping down through backyards. “Megan's sailboat, by now,” is what she finally told him.
But at least she had packed his wound. The bleeding had slowed some. She made him promise he'd find Michael, get right back to that hospital, have it stitched up proper. She'd wanted to ask him what kind of a man carries gauze pads and tape in his pocket on the chance he runs into a ninja assassin on Martha's Vineyard. Even New York's not that crazy.
Lena's toe touched the business card that the subway man had crumpled. The card the bike man tried to give him. She picked it up, opened it, read it. It said, “Parnel Minter. Medium, Spiritualist, Ghost Hunter.”
Poor man. He wouldn't have to hunt very far now. But what am I doing reading this damned thing?
Lena ran to the Taylor House. From the phone at the desk, she dialed 911.
Chapter 44
Parker eased his way back to his boat.
He moved slowly, carefully, keeping his eyes on Johnny G. and Fallon, praying that they wouldn't glance up from that notebook. They didn't, not even when Doyle climbed back aboard. Fallon, however, had stopped listening. He seemed more concerned with the girl who'd gone below. Parker couldn't see why but he didn't care. Just as long as they all keep busy.
Parker's immediate problem was Yahya. If the Giordano brothers had set him up, then Yahya must be a plant. But did Yahya know Johnny was here? Not twenty feet away? Parker didn't think so.
Yahya's chin was on his chest, he had fallen asleep. He had never so much as looked up at the people in the boat next to theirs. Parker intended to keep it that way.
He stepped onto the boat, shook Yahya awake, and pulled him into the small forward cabin. He put him to work filling empties of Snapple with gas.
Yahya was spilling as much as he poured but at least he was getting it done and he was down where he couldn't see out. Parker laid low as well. He grabbed a hat and a pair of sunglasses, put them on. He would sit here, tearing towels into strips, and wait for Hector and Tami. When they got here, same plan, minus Yahya. Tami's first job will be to cut Yahya's throat.
Suddenly he saw Hector coming.
Hector had rounded the corner running. He had both hands to his face, there was blood on his jacket, and he was dragging a twig from one sneaker. There was no sign of Tami. Heads were already turning, looking at him. Parker had to take the chance. He stood up in the boat, waved his arms at Hector, made a palms-down gesture that said, “Get down. Down. Now go slow.”
Hector saw him. He understood. He crouched and pretended to be tying his laces. For the tourists who were near him, this made him stand out even more because his nose, Parker saw, was all over his face. But at least he could no longer be seen from the sailboat.
Parker spread his hands as in “What's wrong? What happened?”
Hector's hands flew helplessly. He pointed up the hill. He drew a hand across his throat to say that someone's dead up there. Then he jabbed his finger at the sky.
Parker groaned inwardly. We're playing fucking charades here. Worse, Hector's crouching there all bloody, about six people staring at him, and his clues are telling every one of them that there's probably just been a murder.
New clue. Eyes. He's holding his fingers to his eyes . . . pushing up at the corners . . . slant eyes? . . . you mean Tami? . . . Tami what? . . . and now the throat again . . . no, not cut ... new clue . . . twisted . . . Someone twisted Tami's neck? . . . Who? ... the sky? . . . something round in the sky? . . . flying saucers? . . . aliens? . . . Hector, what the fuck are you talking about?
The Mexican, desperate, stood up like a signpost and pointed one arm at the eastern sky.
The moon. At last Parker got it. The moon is what's round.
“Megan?
Michael had stepped away from Johnny G. and leaned into the hatch. For some minutes now, he had seen that she was acting strangely. It began, he thought, after Doyle
went ashore to make his call. More so since he returned. She was pacing the walkway from cabin to galley, hugging herself, her eyes glazed and distant.
“Megan . . . sweetheart . . .”
Her eyes flashed at him. Or rather, it seemed, at his use of an endearment. She turned away. He stepped through the hatch and began to climb down. She raised one hand. The gesture and the look said, “Don't! Don't come near me.”
Now, what?
“Look . . . I'm sorry,” he told her. ”I haven't been very attentive, but . . .”
“Get off my boat. All of you.”
A silent groan. Just once in his life, when a woman gets . . . this way, he would like to have some idea of why and some clue as to how he should deal with it. Johnny G. heard her as well. He tried to help.
“This is my fault,” he said over Michael's shoulder. “We had no right laying all this on you.”
She didn't answer. She gave no sign that she heard. She was moving about the cabin, touching things again, the way she did that first night at the Taylor House. Her head kept twitching, this way and that, as if voices were calling from five different directions.
The Shadow Box Page 36