Michael's whole body sagged. The frame sagged with him. It tore free. Michael fell. Megan heard him thump against the outside hull and she heard the splash as he slipped between hull and pilings.
The man said, “Shit!” as if with disgust. In her mind, she saw him looking around, eyes down, searching for his weapon. He found it. She saw him look up. Through his eyes, she saw Moon still struggling to rise but he could not. She saw Johnny Giordano, not moving. A man she did not know, dark skin, soaking wet, was kneeling at Johnny G.'s side. He was wringing his hands and wailing. He was tearing at his hair.
“Oh, for Christ's sake,” the man muttered. He dropped to his knee, peered down through the pilings, and listened for sounds of splashing. He heard and saw Michael. He fit the muzzle of his gun between two planks.
Megan fired through the hull.
Chapter 45
There are days, thought Parker, when you just can't win for losing.
He sat at the edge of the public landing, picking at one of the splinters that were lodged in his scalp. The girl had damned near killed him.
Little bitch.
She's stuck in a burning boat—the thing's melting all around her—so what's the first thing she should do? Get out, right?
She doesn't even try. She starts shooting. Everywhere he moves she starts blasting through the hull like she has fucking X-ray vision.
What's that Kenny Rogers song? You gotta know when to walk away, know when to run. The question was what to do now.
Whether the girl got out or not, he didn't wait around to see. Fallon drowned or he didn't. But Johnny G. and Moon, at least, were both probables. Moon might still be worth some money. The ambulance that took him didn't seem in much of a hurry.
Hector figured to be dead. If Yahya's alive, Hector must be toast. That first boat, the one that exploded, had to be theirs. So how does he get off this island?
Shouldn't be hard. The ferries are out of the question but there's about a thousand other boats to choose from. Some of these houses have their own docks. Pick one, knock on the door, say take me where I want to go and I won't kill your wife.
“Don't move a hair,” said the voice.
Parker tried not to stiffen. His fingers crept toward the butt of the nine. He turned his head slightly. He saw an odd smallish shape in the shadows not ten feet behind him.
”Um . . . You talkin' to me, pal?”
“Hands where I can see them, asshole. Stand up. Back up slow.”
“Hey, look. Long day. You want my wallet, take it. Here, I'll give you my watch.” Parker held out his wrist. His other hand gripped the pistol.
A bullet slammed into his elbow. He could not believe, at first, that he'd been shot because he saw no muzzle flash. But he saw the blood, his arm was broken, and he knew he was as good as in prison. He had to go for it. He spun in a crouch and brought up the nine, searching for the shape behind him. It had moved. All he saw was the shoe coming up at his face.
“You can walk?” the voice asked.
Parker shook his head. He felt with his tongue where a row of teeth were missing.
“You can walk,” the voice decided for him. “Just over to that car.”
Parker could see him now. All but the face. What was odd about the shape was that he held a briefcase against his ribs. One arm was inside the briefcase, the other underneath it with a little charred hole in between. Gun's in the briefcase. That was why he never saw a flash or heard much of a noise. This guy wanted him alive. But he didn't want a crowd.
The voice moved closer, into the light. ”I have to tell you again?”
Oh, Christ. It's the lawyer.
It's Brendan fucking Doyle.
Chapter 46
Dr. Berman, the internist, had been called in from home.
So had every doctor on the island who was not then on duty. So had a vacationing cardiologist from New Jersey and a resident from a Boston trauma center who had hoped to get in some fishing.
Berman saw to Moon first. Moon's puncture wound had been cleaned and stitched and he'd been treated for shock. He was getting whole blood. He should have been responding. He was not. Berman suspected an embolism.
Moon was also under arrest; a police guard had been posted. The least of the charges was a weapons charge. There was also the matter of those two DOAs whom they found on North Water Street.
His friend, Lena Mayfield, had also been arrested. She assaulted the Edgartown policeman who had tried to hold up the ambulance so that he could read Moon his rights.
Berman found Michael in pre-op, barely recognized him. Most of his clothing had been cut away and he was strapped to a gurney. Both hands and one shoulder were packed with gauze, his burned and pocked face had been greased, much of his hair was gone: Michael begged him to find out about Megan. Megan Cole. The girl who was in here last night. And Giordano. Find out about Johnny Giordano.
Berman made a call to the nurses station. He relayed the details as he heard them.
“Giordano's in surgery,” he said. “Head wound. That's all she knows.”
“Megan?”
“She's here.”
Michael allowed himself to breathe.
“She was sutured in ER,” said Berman. “Got a few lacerations when the fireman dragged her out of that boat . . . treated for smoke inhalation . . . right now she's down in ophthalmology. They say they're hopeful about the eye.”
“What eye? What's wrong with her eye?”
Berman asked the nurse. “Bullet fragments,” he told Michael.
Michael strained to get up. He asked Berman to unstrap him.
“You kidding?” Berman hung up the phone.
“I'm fine. This is just cuts and bruises.”
Berman flipped his chart open. He snorted.
“You've got one bullet here.” He touched Michael's shoulder. “It went in through the arm. Your shoulder is fractured. A second bullet entered here.” He touched Michael's bicep. “It passed through. It's now down around your right kidney. You've got blood in your urine—make that urine in your blood—call that a ruptured spleen, and you'll probably need knee surgery. You've got first and second-degree burns. Add to that a little sea water in your lungs but, hey, let's all go roller skating.”
Michael couldn't believe it. The knee, maybe. And some blood from Parker's kidney punch. He'd been hurt worse than that playing sports. Hell, he'd been hurt worse than that by Moon. But he had no recollection at all of being shot.
“The good news,” Berman told him, “is they're small caliber, copper jacket. Anything bigger, we wouldn't be having this chat.”
Two orderlies came in. “Surgery. Right now,” one said to Berman. The other covered Michael and turned the gurney toward the door.
“Wait. There was a man named Parker. Did they catch a man named Parker?”
Berman didn't know.
“And what happened to Doyle? Brendan Doyle, he's got wavy red hair.”
Berman hadn't seen him. He told Michael he'd ask.
“Look, Doc . . . would you go see Megan? Tell her. . .
Michael couldn't finish. Tell her what? That he tried?
“Mike ... go get fixed,” said Berman.
Fallon woke in the recovery room.
He felt at peace but he knew that it was only the narcotics. It bothered him that nothing bothered him. In another few hours, the drug would wear off. He knew that he would feel just as useless as he was. His eyes grew heavy.
When they opened again, it was early morning. He was in a four-bed ward. The three other beds were occupied. Burn victims. He had hoped that they'd put him with Moon.
The corridor outside seemed full of policemen. And men in dark suits. Some of them looked familiar. One looked in, then spoke to another. The other turned and walked away. Michael recognized Frankie Rizzo, who was Julie Giordano's driver. The man who left, was named Emil, the maitre d' at Villardi's. Michael drifted off. He dreamed of Megan. She was holding his hand. She was saying it's okay. You did okay,
Michael.
”. . . you're gonna be okay.”
That wasn't Megan. He opened one eye to see Julie Giordano at his bedside. It was Julie who was squeezing his hand.
“Johnny?” Michael had to wet his lips. “How's Johnny?”
“Not good. Say a prayer.”
“His head?”
Julie touched his own to show where the bullet had struck his younger brother. It was above and behind the right ear. It had bounced off, said Julie. Thank God. But it had smashed in the side of his skull.
“It was Parker,” said Michael.
”I know.”
“Julie ... I never even saw him. All I could think of was Megan in that . . .”
The gangster stopped Michael with a wave of his hand. He had tears in his eyes. Michael saw that he blamed no one but himself. He looked so very tired.
“You've been here all night?”
“Most of it. Got here before midnight. Hired a plane soon as Brendan called.”
Fallon felt his own anger rising. “Where was Doyle? Where the hell was he when . . .”
“He did good. Don't start on Doyle.”
“But if he hadn't . . .”
Julie leaned close. “He got Parker. Now I got Parker. But keep your mouth shut about that.”
Michael listened, disbelieving, as Julie told him what Doyle had done. That his first thought was Johnny and Moon when he saw them both down . . . Moon's got a good chance, by the way ... so Doyle jumped in the Mercedes, went to help them, haul them out of there, but Moon waved him off and said get to that boat, go help Michael. Doyle is Doyle, so he argues. Moon threatens to shoot him if he won't shut up and go.
“He left Johnny?”
“Johnny would have told him the same. But by this time,” said Julie, “you're already down and the girl . . . she don't care if she burns as long as she can get one hit on Parker . . . she's in there blasting away at him. Parker sees the firemen coming, he's going to get shot or get caught. He throws in the towel. Doyle sees all this too. He figures the firemen don't need him, he'll only get in the way. So like I would, he goes after Parker. Like I would, he wants to kill him. But Doyle, unlike me, stops and uses his head. The guy you want to dump on took Parker alive.”
“Where? Where's Parker now?”
“Trunk of your car. The airport by now. My guys, Doyle, and a guy you don't know, name's Yahya, they're taking him back to New York.”
Michael reached for his sleeve. ”I want him, Julie.”
“You listening? We got him.”
“I mean him and me. Alone in a room. As soon as I'm—”
“Hey, this isn't a fucking schoolyard, Mike. You don't get a rematch on this one.”
He kept watching the doorway, expecting to see Megan: He kept seeing her in his mind, inside that burning boat, thinking only of him, trying to get Parker before Parker got him. The more he thought about that, as proud as he was of her, he was that much ashamed of himself. He'd done nothing. Worse, thanks to him, she was hurt, scarred, and homeless.
A woman from admitting came in after breakfast, breakfast was a soft-boiled egg. A nurse had to feed him.
“Do you have an address for Miss Cole?” asked the woman.
“Her only address was her boat. Give her bill to me, if that's what you're asking.”
“What I'm asking is where she might be. She was scheduled for some tests but she got dressed and walked out.”
“When was this?”
“Around two in the morning.”
“She's been gone all this time? She's out there alone?”
Two nurses had to restrain him.
Fat Julie came in one more time.
He brought a message from Moon. “Moon said behave. He said Lena Mayfield's coming down to make sure you do.”
An indifferent shrug. Michael stared at his bandaged hands.
“Hey, what's with you?” Julie asked him. “You did your best. You can't stand it that you weren't a hero?”
“Julie . . . would you please look for Megan?”
“We'll find her. Moon already asked me.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome. Answer my question.”
”I should have done more. I should have done better.”
“Like Moon did for example?”
“Like he taught me to do.”
“Except Moon didn't do shit. It was Moon's new lady who clocked Parker's Jap and hammered that guy from the subway. It was her who kept Moon from bleeding to death. You think it bothers Moon that a woman saved his ass?”
“Lena is Moon's new lady?”
“Get better, Michael. While you're at it, grow up.”
More than a week went by. The three burn patients had been released. Michael had the ward to himself.
Jake's friend, Marty Hennessy, flew up to see him. The visit was official. He was looking for leads on where Parker might be. Michael said he didn't know, but Hennessy saw the truth in his eyes. He had already spoken to Julie. He'd seen it in Julie's eyes as well.
”I want him, Mike,” he said. “But at least I want a body. Tell Giordano I at least want a body this time.”
Hennessy left, said he'd look in on Moon and he'd look in on Johnny. On the day of his visit, the charge against Moon was dropped. Michael didn't know why until some flowers were delivered later that day. The card was signed “Marty.” The note said, “You owe me.”
Johnny G. remained in a coma, mostly. There were one or two times when he seemed to respond to voices but not to light and not to pain. His condition was all the more worrisome to Julie because Bart Hobbs had died in the meantime.
But Moon was released over the objections of Dr. Berman. An embolism, most likely a blood clot, had been pretty much confirmed. It could shut down an artery at any time. Lena took him home to the Taylor House. She told Michael she'd stay on until Moon makes up his mind.
“Makes up his mind about what?”
“Whether to be a damned fool and kill himself. Or whether he knows a good woman when he sees one.”
They could not find Megan.
All Julie knew for sure was that she'd gone back to Woods Hole. She was seen, that day, on the six a.m. ferry. Bandaged eye, burned clothes, limping. No question it was her. That same morning, she tried to charter a sailboat. They saw she was a mess, wouldn't let her. No one saw her after that.
That was on Saturday. On the following Friday, a dentist from Falmouth came to Woods Hole to do some work on his boat. The boat was missing. Two days later, it was found, drifting, down off New London.
Michael's skin went cold. “What does the Coast Guard think happened?”
A hesitant shrug. “They asked . . . could she have iced herself.”
“No way. Not Megan.”
“They only asked because . . .” He groped for better words, finding none. “Is it true she's not right in the head?”
“Who the hell said that? Doyle?”
“Hey! Doyle's out breaking his ass trying to find her when he should be attending to business. We're not done settling up for Jake.”
“Yeah.” Michael let out a breath. ”I know.”
“You ready to look at what I got?”
“I'm ready.”
Julie opened the briefcase he brought with him. Michael recognized it as Doyle's. A small charred hole had been punched through one end. From it, Julie drew out Johnny's notebook, the AdChem annual report, and a sheet with a list of names and numbers on it. This last was a transcription of Arnie Aaronson's list. The original had been in Michael's pocket when the ambulance brought him here.
“How'd you get that?” he asked.
“Like I said, someone had to attend to business.”
He reached into the briefcase again and produced a pin-bound document of perhaps two hundred pages, double-spaced, on legal sheets with line numbers running down the right margin. Julie placed it on Michael's chest. Michael's left thumb was free of dressing. He used it to scan through the pages.
The
document was another transcription. Of an interview ... a deposition ... an interrogation. Q's and A's ran down the left margin. Many of the questions were repeated several times. The language often seemed stilted, the syntax awkward. Many of the answers were halting, fragmented, agonized but, in time, all answers were always completed.
“This is Parker?” Michael asked.
Julie nodded. “Anyone doubts it, it's also on videotape.”
“Who's this asking the questions? This isn't you.”
“Guy named Yahya I mentioned. He's better at it.”
The document was a blueprint of Rast's entire network. It listed every location where the counterfeits were produced and how they were distributed. It listed dozens of people, men and women who were on his payroll, and what services they had provided. Several were high-placed executives with rival firms.
Julie sat at his bedside while Michael read through the transcript. He read parts of it twice, in particular the section on Bronwyn Kelsey and what else she had done for them. On at least two occasions she had lived with other men who were suspected of cheating the Baron. Both men were soon murdered. Their deaths were made to look like street crimes. Michael had to pause, for a time, to clear his mind before he went on.
The Shadow Box Page 38