Johnny G. tried again. “Megan . . . Miss Cole . . . suppose Doyle and I take a walk, maybe get some dinner. That would give you two some time alone.”
Her eyes met his and, for only a moment, she was herself again. The look seemed to say, “It's not you but thank you.” She dropped her eyes. They fell on his overnight bag. “You'll need this,” she told him. She passed it up through the hatch.
Next, she found Doyle's thick briefcase. She reached for it, but hesitated, as if reluctant to touch it. But she did. She passed it up as well.
Michael took it, frowning darkly. He ran his hands over the leather as if trying to feel what had made her react to it.
“It's Doyle?” he asked her. “Megan, what has he done?”
“Go, Michael. Just go.”
Johnny G. touched Fallon's shoulder. “Let's give her a break,” he said gently. “You can come see her later.”
“Megan? Will you be here?”
She lowered her eyes, then nodded. He knew that she was lying. Johnny tugged at him. “Let's go,” he said.
Megan closed the hatch and locked it.
She turned, slowly, and lingered for a moment in the galley. She reached to touch a bottle of Chablis, now almost empty, whose contents she had shared with Michael. She moved on through the main cabin, running her fingers along the bed they had shared.
It had a set of drawers underneath. She opened one of them. Her eyes fell, sadly, on the birthday-wrapped package that she'd rushed out to buy while he was at the airport. It was only a sweater. But it would have looked good on him. It was a knit of Irish wool and part of the label was in Gaelic. He liked Irish things. She moved the package aside.
Beneath it, she found the Colt Python that she had taken from his bedside table. She picked it up, brought it to her lips. The gun was silent now. All the same, she would have waited before giving it back to Michael. She would have done it the next time they went out sailing. She would have asked him to drop it over the side.
She thought of the man named Hobbs. He had not killed his “whole self—as Moon had put it—he killed “just the part where his fear was.” For Hobbs, a gun had brought relief.
Megan knew that she would soon lose Michael. She had thought that she'd be able to deal with it. But here, already, she was falling apart. Hearing voices. Seeing flashes of visions. Seeing that lawyer, her file in his hands, reading aloud to a stunned and sickened Michael.
And she was seeing fires again. People screaming and running this time. People dying. She was hearing, all around her, other men who want to kill her, kill Michael, kill everyone. Even Moon. And Moon's not even here.
Even Parnel. That's how crazy she was getting. When the voices tell her that they've come to kill poor, simple, Parnel Minter, who is probably down at the A&P right now, munching grapes from Helen's produce section, it's time to try to make them shut up.
Her lips closed over the Python's muzzle.
Was there one single part of the brain, she wondered, where the visions came from and where the voices lived? That's where she would aim if she knew.
But she won't shoot herself.
Not here. Not yet.
She'll do it the way she had meant to once before. Far out at sea. Nothing but horizon in either direction. She'll turn into the wind, sit out over the railing, and do it that way. No note, no blood on the deck, no sign that it was anything more than a sailor who went out alone and got knocked in the head by the boom.
This time, she wouldn't let some dolphin talk her out of it.
“Oh, Christ,” muttered Parker.
He saw, through the wheelhouse window, that all three of them were leaving the boat. They were carrying their bags. Just once, before this day is out, he would like to have one thing go right.
But the girl, he realized, had stayed on board. Could be they're just stashing their bags in the car. He heard police sirens off in the distance. The way to bet, he thought, is they're heading for Tami.
Hector was still calming down, he's trying to straighten his nose, but he should still be able to drive this thing. Parker nudged him.
“Time to haul ass,” he said quietly. “You're clear on what to do?”
Hector wet his lips. “Maybe you're wrong about Yahya.”
Parker hissed. “Hector . . . we've been set up. How much clearer can it be?”
“But Yahya . . . look at him . . . does he look as if he's had instructions? All he cares about now is to stop being sick.”
“Hector . . . when the noise starts, kill him.”
Parker pulled out his lighter, made sure it still flicked. He handed it to Hector. At his feet was a bucket containing six bottles, each primed with a three-inch wick. He felt for the pistols he wore at his waist. Both safeties were off. He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes.
“Start counting,” he told Hector. “At ten, you start the stampede. At sixty, we're heading home rich.”
Parker stepped onto the dock.
“Brendan . . .” Fallon stopped at the trunk of his car. He looked up toward the bank of public phones. “Who did you call from up there?”
A shrug. ”I told you. I checked with Sheila.”
“You're sure?”
“As opposed to some tootsie? Michael . . . give me the key.” He took it and opened the trunk.
“Did you say anything to her about Megan?”
“Will you stop? No. Sheila doesn't know she exists.”
Johnny G. understood what Michael was asking. Something had set Megan off. One minute she's hospitable, the next she's throwing them out and she treats Doyle's briefcase like it's been laying in shit. His thought at the time was that she must have gone through it, found something she didn't like. Michael's thought was a little more weird but a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Brendan,” said Johnny. ”I saw you make two calls.” It's a lie, but let's see.
No reaction from Doyle.
But no indignation reflex either. Johnny held up two fingers.
“The second was about Megan Cole. You asked for a make on her, didn't you.”
Doyle looked away. ”A good lawyer checks,” he said lamely.
Michael turned red. He was, thought Johnny, about two seconds from liftoff and then would have wrung Doyle's neck. He had a right to be pissed but to Johnny this was missing the point. This girl knew that? She really did? When this is over, he thought, let's fly her to Vegas.
“Understand me, Brendan . . .” Michael spoke through his teeth, his voice like escaping steam. “Megan has told me all that she cares for me to know. When she's ready, she might give me more. If you learn one fucking fact more, I'm finished with you. If you . . .”
But Johnny was no longer listening. He was watching the strobe lights of two police cars picking their way through pedestrian traffic and now he turned toward the sound of a young girl's voice, off to his right, because he heard her say someone is bleeding.
He saw her now, up by the toilets. She was pointing and backing away. He followed her finger to what looked like some drunk who was staggering back down to his boat. It was Moon. Johnny slapped Michael's arm and took off at a run.
Michael, confused, only watched him go. But he followed Johnny G.'s line of sight until he, too, disbelieving, saw Moon. Brushing Doyle aside, he pushed off in pursuit. A flickering flame arched high overhead.
Michael saw it. It seemed, impossibly, to come from Megan's boat. Still moving toward Moon, he followed its path through the night sky. It came down on Dock Street, amid a cluster of tourists. It exploded, spitting tongues of flame. The tourists screamed and ran. A young woman's hair was on fire. She didn't seem to know it. Two college boys chased her down, one beating at her head with his jacket. A second bomb hit. It burst amid the row of parked cars, missing but searing the Mercedes. Doyle ran from it, covering his head.
Fallon was frozen. He turned his head, once again, to their apparent source. Two more bursts came in quick succession. Megan's boat was ablaze. The blue cockpit
cover became wisps of ash. The main sail, furled on her boom, was melting. It was dripping hot globules of dacron. Flames lapped at the main hatch, sucking air from the cabin below.
He screamed Megan's name. Another voice, Johnny's or Moon's, screamed his own. It said, “No, Michael. Don't!” He heard gunshots over the screams. He ignored them all. His only thought was of Megan.
“Hector, don't do this,” a horrified Yahya had pleaded.
“Hold it steady,” barked Hector.
He had moved the boat out, abeam of the sailboat, he told Yahya to come hold the wheel. “This is only to help us get away from here,” he said.
Yahya watched, stricken, as the first two bottles soared high overhead. He could only pray that they would land harmlessly, that they would frighten, not burn. That Parker would jump back on his boat and then they could all be gone.
“Fifteen,” muttered Hector who was counting aloud. He lit two more bottles and on “Eighteen” he threw them. But these were not arched high over the sailboat. These were thrown like the dunking of basketballs. They exploded in the boat not six feet away. Hector's hair was smoking from the heat they gave off. The force of the blast caused his nose to start bleeding again.
“Are you crazy?” cried Yahya.
So many screams. From all over. And now the crack of gunshots.
“I'll take the wheel,” said Hector. “Get below.”
Hector was lighting two more. But these he set down on the deck. He left them sitting as if they were lamps.
”I said get below,” Hector told him. “You need to hide.”
Yahya looked into his eyes. He saw, in an instant, what was now in the Mexican's heart. He saw Hector lean down and reach into a camera bag. That bag contained nothing but pistols. Hector knew that he knew. “I'm sorry to do this,” said Hector.
A gun in one hand, Hector came forward. He reached out with the other to pull Yahya away from the wheel. Yahya wanted to scream, to demand to know why, but fear had taken his voice. He could only grip the throttle with all his strength so that Hector could not yet shoot him. Hector saw this. He moved to strike at Yahya's gripping hand. Yahya tried to kick him but he missed and he fell. The throttle came with him, back and down. The boat underneath them roared. It bucked and then charged in reverse. Hector went tumbling. The bottles came tumbling. Behind them was a row of small launches. This boat was going to smash into them.
Yahya let out a yelp. He threw himself over the side.
Parker heard the grinding crash. It came from down near the ferry. He turned to see a fireball rising and at least two more followed as other fuel tanks ruptured. He saw what must have been a man, totally ablaze, staggering through the flames of one burning hulk.
Panic everywhere in sight. Sailors shouting, trying to cut their lines. Good man, Hector. Too bad I have to kill you once we're clear of this island.
He could no longer see Childress's boat but it's now forty seconds. It should be heading toward that big concrete landing by now.
His own luck was holding but not as he'd hoped. Giordano was down, not moving. Parker had snapped off three shots when he saw him running to the jig. At least one had hit him, hit him square. The jig is definitely Moon. He has a gun out, is creeping toward Giordano, carefully, because he still doesn't know where the shots came from. Too much going on all at once.
And now a woman, another jig, was coming down around the corner on a bicycle. The bike wobbled badly, the front wheel was bent. The woman, Parker realized, had to be the one who belted Hector. He says she was the one from the subway. God knows how she figures in this. She sees Moon. She's yelling his name. He tries to get up. She reaches him, drags him back down.
Parker could run over there. Yell out he's a cop. He could blow Moon away before he knows any different. But the real cops, goddamn it, were already here. There was one not fifty feet from Moon, his gun drawn but still in shock, trying to understand what was happening to his town. And there were fire engines coming. He could hear them wailing just a few blocks away.
Okay, he decided. Forget Moon. He looks like he's half dead already. Tami must have got a piece. Go take what you can get, which is Fallon.
Fallon was the only one who followed the script. When the boat flew, all three of them were supposed to run back to help. Parker would pop all three when they did. But the jig had shown up out of nowhere and the three of them split in three directions. No sign of the lawyer. He's probably looking for burn victims, handing them his fucking card. But Fallon's right on that boat, lit up like Christmas, trying to kick through the hatch.
Parker eased the .22 from his belt.
Say goodbye, Mr. Fallon.
Megan had crawled forward, away from the flames and smoke, into the V-bunks, and slammed the wooden bulkhead door behind her. She tried the forward hatch. The heat had warped it. It was stuck.
Her shower was forward as well. She turned it on, snatched up some of the bedding, began to wet it down. White smoke from burning teak, black smoke from melting fiberglass were pouring through the grating of the bulkhead door. She tried to pack it, keep it out, but she knew that she had only a minute or two. The smoke she'd inhaled had already made her dizzy. The door was hot to the touch.
Through it, she heard a furious pounding aft, the sound of splintering wood. She heard Michael's voice, he was screaming her name. She yelled, “Michael, get off. Get off!” The propane in the galley would go soon.
She saw no way out. The two forward portholes were far too small. Through them, port and starboard, she could see the glow of more fires. She had the big Colt Python. It was in her hands when her cockpit exploded into flame and when a second sheet of flame spread across her fore-deck. That one, she knew, had made a bonfire of the sail bags she had stacked up there to make room for Michael's guests. The stack trapped noxious gases that now seeped down through melted seals.
She still heard Michael. She heard him kicking. But her main hatch was solid teak and she'd bolted it. He would need an axe to get through.
The gun was a comfort. She need not burn to death.
Parker had fired twice at Fallon. Hit, miss, he didn't know. But the din had made the gun almost silent. Get up close, he told himself. Make like you're coming to help. He'll recognize you, maybe, but not in time.
Parker approached from the bow end, out of Fallon’s line of sight. He held the .22 close against his leg, his left hand on the butt of the nine in his belt. Good. Now get him to stand up.
He shouted to Michael, ''Hey! Let me give you a ha—” An explosion deafened him. Something stung at his face, cut into his arm. The .22 fell from his fingers, bounced, and tumbled off the edge of the dock. Now Fallon was leaping off the boat. Straight at him. Knocking him backward. Parker tugged at the nine but before he could raise it, two more quick explosions. Pieces flew off the side of the boat. He had to cover up his face.
If the gun was a comfort, it was also a tool.
Megan had snatched up a pillow, held it against the starboard porthole, and fired at its frame. If she could shoot out the frame, she just might squeeze through. The blast set the pillow on fire but a part of the frame and six inches of hull blew outward. Still not enough. She moved the pistol to the part still intact. She fired twice more.
Suddenly, she could see Michael's face. It was pocked and bleeding from shards of the frame. But he was helping her. He was tearing at the frame that still clung to the hull. He used his left hand. His right arm seemed to hang limp. Even the left hand was nearly useless because the jagged metal had torn at his fingers. With a desperate curse, he vanished to one side. She heard him on deck, and in seconds he was back again. He had gone for a coil of line. The line itself was smoldering.
He looped the coil on one end of the frame. She reached through to help him attach it. Above her, the forward hatch had melted through. Burning sail bags tumbled down. She kicked them away but now she was suffocating. Michael twisted the loop over one shoulder. He braced himself and heaved. The frame began to come
free. She pushed at it from the inside, her face crowding the hole as she tried to find breathable air. Through the smoke pouring out, she saw the man. He wore a slouch hat, dark glasses. He was raising a pistol, aiming it at the back of Michael's head.
“Michael! Down!”
He ducked and wheeled. The man in the slouch hat fired. His bullet punched a hole in the hull near her face. A fragment struck her eye. She could no longer see.
And yet she did see. She knew that Michael had torn the coil of line free and was lashing the man who was trying to shoot him. She saw the burning coil strike at his hand, once, twice, a third time as the man tried to aim his gun again. Michael must have knocked it away because she heard the man snarl “Fuck!” and she knew that he was scrambling back to his feet. She knew that Michael was reaching for a weapon of his own but the right arm he tried with could not grip it.
The man almost smiled. He raised both his hands to show that they held nothing. He said, “Come on, tough guy. Let's dance.”
Michael lunged, not at him, but at the porthole. He cried, “Push, Megan. Push!” She could not. She was groping blindly for the Python. She felt Michael gag and go rigid as the other man's fist slammed into his kidney. Still, he held on. The man kicked at Michael's knee.
“You like karate, tough guy? How was that for karate?”
The Shadow Box Page 37