by Tracy Clark
I eyed the pilot’s chair. I didn’t know how to drive a yacht, but how hard could it be? There was nothing out here to run into, except fish. I zipped up the ladder and ran for the controls. I would drive the boat back to the slips and deliver Spada into the arms of the police. When the engine fired, Spada would, of course, try to stop me, but I’d deal with that when it happened.
The big silver steering wheel looked easy enough. The gauges and dials meant nothing to me, but how much did I need to understand in order to make a big loop in the water and head back? To the right of the wheel was a slot where a key would go, just like a car. Got it. But there was no key. I checked the chair. No key. No key on the massive dashboard. I hauled off and whacked the wheel, cursing it, and then scanned the water. No police boats. No helicopter. Seriously? What were they waiting for? An invitation?
The door below me burst open and I flinched, ducked, and ran for the shadows, sliding across the overhang, my body flat against the wet fiberglass. Jung appeared, and Spada right behind him, one hand gripping him by the back of his T-shirt, prodding him along roughly, the other holding an empty Scotch bottle. I rose up on hands and knees, readying myself to move. Spada stopped for a moment, reared back, and tossed the bottle into the lake, then pulled a gun from his waistband and jabbed it into Jung’s back. I recognized the gun. I’d seen it in Spada’s desk drawer.
Dammit. The gun raised the stakes. I eased down again; pouncing was no longer an option.
“March,” Spada ordered. “Hurry up.”
Jung tried pulling himself free. “Let go of me, you lousy murderer. I know you killed him . . . I know it. You . . . I . . .”
What did Jung think he was doing? He needed to comply, buy time. He needed to shut the hell up. And what was wrong with him, anyway?
“I said march.”
Spada steered Jung toward the front of the boat. I followed, sliding along the top of the overhang, looking for a way down that wouldn’t snap my ankles. Thankfully, Jung kept his mouth shut while Spada goosed him along, the gun poking into his spine. What was Spada’s endgame? What good would it do to kill Jung now? And why stop the boat here when he had to know the police were on his trail?
Jung was younger and stronger than Spada, but it didn’t look like he could capitalize on either advantage. He appeared sluggish, unsteady on his feet. Had he been forced to down that bottle of Scotch? Had Spada mixed it with some of the meds from Tim’s cabinet? This had to be how he and Darby dispatched Tim Ayers.
Jung fought against Spada’s hold, but got nowhere with it. “Get . . . off.”
The two reached the front of the boat and Spada shoved Jung hard into the railing. He looked determined to see Jung dead. “You’re going in, just like your buddy Tim. It’s too bad I won’t make a dime off you.” He wiped his brow, scanned the lake nervously. He knew his time was growing short. “But you’re no Ayers. I doubt they’ll send anyone to even look for you at the bottom of the lake.”
I scrambled to my knees, looking for a good jumping-off point. Spada turned, his back to me, and Jung glanced up and saw me there. His eyes widened, then narrowed, focused in. He opened his mouth to speak, but I drew a finger to my lips to quiet him. He chuckled softly instead. That’s when Spada yanked him to his feet and rammed him up against the railing again. “Nobody laughs at me.”
“He killed Tim,” Jung shouted, his back pressed to the metal, half out, but fighting to stay lucid. “Darby helped . . . he admitted it. They boarded his boat, got him drunk, drove him out, and then shoved him over . . . marina shifts . . . no, skiffs. That’s how they got away.”
I cringed, stopped breathing; he was talking to me. I watched Spada, afraid he’d catch on, look up, and find me hiding, but he didn’t. Instead, he stuffed his gun into his waistband, ready to get done what he needed to get done.
“And I’m going to kill you, too, so you can take all that with you when you drown.”
Jung teetered for a moment, and it looked like he might collapse, a marionette with cut strings, but he hung on the rail, fighting it. I had to give it to him. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Can’t . . . undrownabubble . . . undrownable.”
Spada laughed. “It’s too bad Darby’s not here to test that.” He leaned in close to Jung. “But, well, he ran into a little trouble, didn’t he? Chop, chop, chop. Nobody crosses me. It’s you first, and then Raines. I’m going to enjoy seeing her in pieces.”
I shivered, remembering Darby in the box. Spada grabbed Jung up again, but this time Jung grabbed back. He literally threw his entire body at the man with the gun, the two struggling as the boat swayed. I knew Jung would come out on the losing end. There was no way he wouldn’t.
Not good. Not good. I bolted for the rim of the overhang, flung my legs over the side, and jumped, landing hard, jamming my knees. I took off, running the length of the boat, my bare feet, as cold as ice, slipping along the deck. Jung was fighting for his life. I had to get there. He wouldn’t last long in the water. He wouldn’t last at all with a bullet in his head.
I skidded to a stop a few feet from the two of them, gun drawn, watching as Spada’s arm tightened around Jung’s throat. His other hand had a gun in it.
He reeled, shocked to see me, his wild eyes confused by my presence. He checked the lake again, but there was nothing there, not yet. “Raines. How? When?” He pulled Jung closer to him, using him as a human shield. Jung slumped back, his eyes half-closed, no more fight left in him.
“Drop the gun. Let him go.”
Spada laughed and the sound of it sent shafts of icy fear shooting down my spine. “Or?”
My hands, the blood drained from my fingers, the blisters throbbing and tender, tightened on the grip of my gun. I didn’t want to consider the “or.” I didn’t respond, but I watched him, closely, every muscle tic, every inhale of breath.
He laughed. “Thought so. You’ve got nothing. He’s got nothing. A few files? Stolen files, and the word of a few low-life scum? I have money. Money talks, remember that.” Spada checked the water, still nothing. “He’s going over, and then you’re going over after him. That’s how this ends.” He raised the gun, waved it in Jung’s direction, but I didn’t have a shot. Jung still stood between Spada and me. “Or it ends like this. Your choice.”
I needed to stall for time. The cops were coming. “I could be wearing a wire.”
Frankly, he’d just dragged me halfway to Union Pier by his towline. If I had had a wire, it would have conked out ten miles back, but, again, stalling.
Spada looked me over, saw that I was soaked to the skin, then grinned maliciously. “Nice try.” He tightened his hold around Jung’s neck. “No one saw anything, not even that idiot in the boat next to Tim’s. No witnesses, no proof.”
Eldon Reese heard what sounded like a buoy hitting the side of Tim’s boat. That had to have been Spada and Darby boarding the Safe Passage. That fixed the time. Reese would have it all written in his little book.
“Edward! That is your name, isn’t it? Edward Horvat?”
The name pulled him up short, surprised him. He lowered the gun a bit and his taunting smile disappeared. The boat rocked and angry waves slapped against the sides, the smell of the lake mixing with the sweat of fear—mine. I flicked a look at Jung. Nothing.
“You were in my home.”
“And I met your wife. Lovely woman. Too bad about the fake kids, though.”
He appeared lost in thought for a moment. Was he trying to figure out a way to cover up my discovery? He’d have to kill me, of course, which he already planned on doing, but then he’d also have to kill his wife, and even then he couldn’t be sure I or she hadn’t mentioned his true identity to anyone else, in my case the police. How many more would he have to kill? He had to know he was sinking further and further into the hole he’d dug for himself.
Horvat. It came to me then, after niggling at the edges of my brain since the Spada house. I knew now why it seemed so familiar. It was “Tavroh” spelled backward.
Tavroh, the company that owned the building Leon’s chop shop ran out of. Spada owned the building. He owned Leon. Leon owned the goons. Funny how the brain worked, not so much when you wanted it to, but almost always when you needed it. “You’re an ex-con, aren’t you? You, Darby, and Leon. Did you serve time together? Is that how this whole thing got hatched?” I thought of Tim, Peter Langham, Stella, and all the others. All of them denied the chance to die in peace. That’s what Tim argued with Darby about.
Spada said nothing.
“This boat’s going nowhere,” I said. “All I have to do is hold you till the cops come.” I could hear a helicopter approaching, the roar of boat motors. Finally. But Spada heard it, too. He backed up along the railing, dragging Jung with him.
“Don’t do it,” I warned. “Don’t make me.”
He wet his lips, sweat beading on his brow. “Without Darby, you can’t pin anything on me.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“That was your fault. You spooked him. He didn’t want to go back to prison and demanded a bigger cut so he could pull up stakes. But we had a deal, just like with Tim and all the others, and I never renegotiate. . . . All they had to do was die when they were supposed to. I only held them to what they agreed to. It was business.... Don’t look so pleased with yourself. None of this will do you any good. You two will be dead and gone before the police get here.” His back was to the railing now, Jung just inches from going over. Jung slumped and Spada flicked a desperate look at him, then glared at me.
He raised his gun slowly. My fingers tightened on mine. His hand twitched some, as the gun drew closer to Jung’s head. I calmed, inhaled, held my breath.
“You’re a two-bit PI way out of your league,” Spada said, “and I’m going to blow his . . .”
I fired. The round caught Spada right below his right shoulder, and he flew back against the railing, sending Jung tumbling out of his grip. He’d left me no choice, but, honestly, I didn’t regret it all that much. The man tried to fry me and Whip alive in an oily chop shop. By rights, I should have shot him twice.
Spada’s gun fell from his hand as he went down, and I quickly closed in and kicked it away, beyond his reach. Writhing around on the deck, he groaned pitifully, his eyes fastened on the night sky, a stunned expression on his face. He mumbled something, but I ignored it. I went to check on Jung, keeping my distance. Jung was out, but breathing. I could see the lights of police boats now, and the helicopter, its searchlight breaking through the clouds, the whump, whump of its rotors music to my soggy ears.
“Self-defense.” Spada winced, pulled himself up to a sitting position, and cradled his shoulder. “You two lured me here to kill me, some twisted vendetta, you can’t prove otherwise.”
“You’re a killer ten times over. I have your files. It won’t take much to match them to all those cases of accidental deaths. The Williams brothers and Nada are all in custody and they’re talking a blue streak.” I didn’t know for a fact that Nada was talking, in fact, last time I checked in, only the ugly siblings were unburdening themselves, but Spada didn’t know that. “And then there’s the fire, the assault on my person.” I ticked it all off on my fingers. “The second you left the dock with Jung, that was kidnapping, so there’s that. Oh, and then there’s your very salty wife who, by now, will likely swear on five stacks of Gideon bibles that you were nowhere near her the night Tim died. And there’s Jung, whom you just spilled your guts to. I’ll have to check on the marina skiff. In short, you’re up shit creek without a paddle, a canoe, or a snowball’s chance in Hell.”
Jung began to stir, his eyes opened. He was coming around.
“Darby killed Tim, not me.” Blood seeped through Spada’s fingers, but he managed a smile. “He killed them all.”
“And you killed Darby. Why send his body to me?”
Spada shook his head, pressed his lips together. He wasn’t going to say anything more, which was fine. The cops would get it from Nada, or one of the others. In addition to his files, I had a witness to Spada’s confession and a witness to Darby’s stalking of Tim Ayers. It wouldn’t take Marta and the others long to connect the dots. They’d track Spada through every alias he’d ever had. They’d find his prison record. One piece of paper, one forgotten piece, and he’d be sunk.
He omitted a low, mean chuckle. “Why not?”
The horn blew on one of the approaching boats, and I watched as the first one closed in, just a minute or so out now. Even through the fog he was in, Jung heard it, too, and stumbled to his feet. He turned to scan the lake, only to suddenly lose his footing, pitch backward, and, in an instant, seamlessly, slip beneath the railing and fall overboard.
“Jung!” I ran for him, but it was too late. I turned back to Spada and found him crawling fast for the gun I’d kicked away. I fired again, missed, thanks to the rocking boat, but the round was enough to beat Spada back. He recoiled, and then curled on the deck in the fetal position, his ducked head shielded by bloody, trembling hands.
I raced for his gun, but stopped halfway there, a decision to make. Jung was drowning. I locked eyes on the gun lying on the deck, then on the lake, and on the approaching boat. Go for the gun, or go for Jung? That moment of hesitation, just that one moment, was enough. Spada sprang for the gun again and got it. I turned and bolted for the side of the boat.
I didn’t need to check behind me to know he had the gun pointed at my back. I didn’t have time to turn and fire again, only enough to haul ass. I hit the railing, grabbed it with both hands, squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the bullet, and swung myself up and over into the water.
Spada fired and missed, but the shots kept coming, the rounds torpedoing into the water all around me. I dove deep, waiting to be hit, wondering about the police boats, and knowing Jung was out here somewhere, taking on water. One, two, three, four, five shots; Spada emptied his clip, firing wildly. When the bullets finally stopped, I surfaced slowly to see him weaving toward the controls of the Magnifique just as the marine unit roared in.
The water was dark; the night was dark. My exhausted arms trembled. I couldn’t see anything beyond the reach of my own fingertips. No use calling out. Jung wouldn’t hear me. I dove again, feeling around below the surface, hoping I got lucky and happened upon him, popping up empty-handed, only to try again. The water suddenly lit up like daylight and I turned to see the CPD boat idling a few feet away, its engine rumbling, searchlights trained on the patch of lake I was bobbing around in.
“Out of the water,” a gruff voice announced over the bullhorn. “Swim toward the boat.”
The life ring tossed from the boat missed my head by inches, but I grabbed it, ducked inside it, and held on.
“There’s someone else in the water!” I yelled up to the boat. “He needs help.”
The searchlight moved along the surface in a wide arc, but no one jumped in to help in the search. All I could see from my vantage point were the tops of the waves.
“Out of the water,” the voice repeated.
I groaned, pounded a fist on the surface, and then turned my back to the boat. I slipped out of the ring and took another sightless dive. I came up empty again, but thanks to the lights, I spotted a dark mass floating as flat as a board in the chop a few feet away. It was Jung. I swam over and grabbed him from behind, hoisting him up under his rib cage. I checked for a pulse, two blistered fingers to the side of his neck. There it was. He was still breathing. He was alive.
“Hold on. I’ve got you.” Jung sputtered, coughed, and I slowly steered us both toward the nearest boat.
“Somebody pushed me out of bed,” he croaked. “Now my feet are cold.”
“That’s the least of your worries.” The cops had extended a long pole that I was apparently supposed to grab hold of to maneuver our way in. Fat chance. Jung was deadweight and I was running on empty. My legs, treading beneath me, felt strangely detached, numb, like they belonged to someone else.
Jung’s eyes popped open. “What’s that
knocking?”
“That’s my heart beating. Stop . . . talking . . . to me.” A cop from the boat steadied the pole, pointed it in our direction.
“‘I hear you knocking,’” Jung muttered, “‘but you can’t come in’.... That’s Fats.”
I kicked, my legs about to give out. “Shut it!”
I grabbed the pole and held on. The cops pulled Jung up, and then it was my turn. I’d never been so happy to be out of the water in my entire life. I watched as the cops boarded the Magnifique and put Spada in handcuffs. I could see him talking a mile a minute, trying to explain himself. Self-defense, my ass. Jung was beside me, loopy as all get-out. “We got him,” I said. “And thank God he’s a lousy shot.”
Jung shot me a drunken grin. “Told you I could help.”
I turned to face him. He looked like a drowned cat. I likely didn’t look that much better, but I got Nick Spada, so I was okay with it. “Pop-Tarts?”
Jung smiled, his eyes glassy. “Strawberry frosted. The. Best.” I shook my head. “I don’t know how you get by in the world, I really don’t.”
Chapter 49
I was seated in the backseat of an unmarked car, the back door open wide, sipping a weak hot chocolate from a thermos top. It took all I had not to stretch out across the seat and go to sleep. Holding the cup was tricky. The paramedics had applied some kind of ointment to the angry welts on my palms and forearms and then wrapped several inches of gauze around them, and I was cloaked in an itchy wool blanket that smelled like someone had died in it. There were shoes on my feet that I’d acquired from somewhere, but I was too exhausted to check them out. They’d taken Jung off to the hospital, but it looked like he’d be okay. I’d refused to go, which was why I was in the back of the police car.