I started this. I have to finish it. I can’t help it.
I check the ancient hand-wind clock on the mantel. Eight, straight up. I peer out a kitchen window through a crack in the blinds. Sunset is approaching fast, made darker and more sudden by the low-hanging clouds. Off in the distance, about five miles, I hear thunder, feel the rumble. In an hour, maybe less, heavy rain will begin falling all around here. I’m counting on that.
Eight-thirty. The thunder is getting closer, less than a mile away now. I’ve been sitting in the gloom, trying to find as much inner calm as I can, given the perilous circumstances. Now it’s time I go. Checking outside one more time to make sure no one’s snuck up on me unawares, I leave by the back door, open the garage, strap the canoe to my Jeep, and slowly, with the lights out, drive down to the burnt-out hulk that was my own home. I take the canoe off the Jeep, slide it into the water, climb in, and start paddling.
The rain dances across the water toward me, swaying like a wet, glassy hula skirt in the high, accompanying winds. Its force is of almost tropical storm intensity, immediately dousing me, the raindrops smashing down like wet BBs.
For once in my life I’m glad I’m being drenched. Not only will the storm provide valuable cover, it should also discourage surveillance. I’ve come equipped not only for weather, but for stealth. I pull on midnight blue foul-weather pants and jacket over my T-shirt and shorts, cover my backpack with a black garbage bag. That backpack’s been everywhere with me, I’m not about to leave it behind now. I kneel in the center of the slender canoe, silently paddling downstream, toward Roach’s dock.
Around one more bend in the narrow river, under a majestic stand of cypress tree roots that hang way out overhead, forming a ghostly canopy, the edge of Roach’s property comes into view. No illumination anywhere—no ambient light coming from his house, nothing from his landing strip, a quarter-mile downstream. No lights on his dock, nor on his boat, which is bobbing in the rain-fed swells.
Normally, this yacht, shimmering in the darkness, would be a thing of beauty, a vision to behold. But not now. Now it’s a land mine I have to negotiate, without blowing myself up. From the cover of the dense foliage, I survey the area. I assume there are sensors and hidden cameras guarding the place, as there were when I trespassed here last time, but I don’t see any real live people. I don’t know how far afield Roach’s security extends—not this far from his house, I hope. The pictures that were taken of me were closer in; until I reached a certain point on his perimeter, about two hundred yards from the house, I think I had been undetected. The dock is a considerably greater distance than that from the house. And tonight, with this storm blowing like crazy, the security’s likely to be lax—guys working for wages, no matter how professional they’re supposed to be, aren’t going to stand around outside in weather like this, getting wetter and more miserable by the minute. They’re going to be inside where it’s warm and cozy, counting on the alarm system to cover their backs. They’ll hop to when Roach comes down here, but not before. An important element in my favor.
I look at the yacht through my binocs, a hand over the lens to keep the rain off. Nothing at all is moving—it’s like a ghost ship. Of course, according to the note she’d left to herself, the meeting isn’t scheduled for another hour. When Roach and whoever he brings with him do arrive they’ll have plenty of security, that’s a given. But the appointment is still an hour from now.
As I stare at the boat some more I’m forced to think of another possibility that’s been dancing around the back of my mind: that the note in her daytimer is bogus. She figured (or hoped) I would find it and wanted to throw me off her trail. Hiding it in plain sight was pretty blatant, now that I’ve had time to think about it.
If Maureen isn’t here, I’m doubly fucked. I have to confront her, for my own sanity. And for closure. I’m risking my life to do it, but I can’t help it. This experience has devastated me like none I’ve ever had, or ever want to have again. I know I’ve been set up, but how elaborately? Frailty, thy name is woman. Duplicity or shamelessness is what the bard really meant. Yet who am I to cast a stone at her, to quote another impeccable authority? I’ve been lying to her, to myself, to the world for years.
The recent events in my life are payback for my own dishonesty. Big-time.
I fidget around in my canoe, watching and listening. Check my watch. Five after nine. Maybe there’s something on the boat that will help me find the answers I’m looking for about Maureen. I’ve got an hour before they show up—if they come at all.
I scan the area again. No guards anywhere that I can see, no one’s gone on or come off the yacht. I’m cramping, hunkering down in the little boat. The rain, falling harder than ever, is wearing me down. I’m irritable, nervous, antsy. I can’t wait here for another hour.
Screw it—I’m going over there now. I’ll look into the belly of the beast, find out what I can, and I’m gone. I’ll confront Maureen at a time and place when it’s safer.
Getting to the yacht from where I’m hiding will take only a couple of minutes, but it will be the most dangerous part. It’s pitch-black out and the conditions are shit, but I’ll be exposed. If I’m wrong—if Roach’s security is alert and does extend this far—I’m a dead duck.
Mine not to reason why anymore. I untie my boat line from the tree, and push off.
My canoe glides quietly across the choppy water. I’m hunched down low, my oar slipping in and out of the water without a sound, my head swiveling back and forth, eyes looking everywhere—on shore, on the boat, behind me.
A hundred yards and closing. Seventy-five. Fifty. My shoulders and arms are aching, not from exertion, but from anxiety. And then I’m alongside the silent, dark vessel, on the side facing away from the dock and the rest of the property, out of sight from land, protected by the bulk of the sailboat.
I take a moment to catch my breath, then press an ear to the ship’s hull, listening intently. But I don’t hear a sound except that of the rain, which is still coming down hard, the heavy drops pounding the surf and the ship’s deck.
Get in, find whatever I can, get the hell out. I secure my boat line onto the yacht, slip my pack onto my back, and moving as quietly as I can, I hoist myself aboard.
The deck is slippery. I’m wearing running shoes instead of deck shoes, so I walk carefully. As I approach the closed hatch, an absurd thought hits me—what if the cabin door is locked, and I can’t get in? All this stress for nothing.
My luck’s still holding. The hatch cover slides open effortlessly. I climb in, pulling it shut behind me—and as soon as I do I enter into a world of total darkness, not a streak of light showing from anywhere, inside or out. The normal claustrophobic, almost overpowering fear that everyone has of being entombed nearly takes my breath away, the feeling is so suffocating.
I force myself to stand absolutely still, to steady myself. It isn’t easy; I can’t even hear my own breathing, my heart’s pounding so hard in my ears. I’m really fighting, in this pitch-blackness, not to have a full-on panic attack.
It takes a few moments for my pulse rate to come back down to a level approaching normal. And when it does, I realize that I am not alone.
There’s a moment of silence. I can hear someone else’s breathing, along with mine. “You found it, didn’t you?” Maureen says to me out of the gloom, in a monotone that’s devoid of emotion.
A few low lights come on inside the cabin. She’s sitting at the saloon table less than five feet from me, staring at me through lifeless eyes. She looks terrible—there are bruises on her cheekbones and neck, her hair is all awry, she’s deathly pale. And she’s been crying, there’s caked makeup under her eyes.
I grab the edge of the table to steady myself—I’m trembling so bad I can hardly stand. “Of course I found it. You set me up perfectly. But you’re an hour early,” I blurt—I’m not thinking straight, I’m way too freaked out. “You’re not supposed to be here until ten.”
“Oh, Fritz, you dam
n fool! You shouldn’t have come,” she wails.
I don’t know whether to shit or go blind. I stare at her, transfixed. Then I hear another body shifting. And I know.
“She’s right, Fritz.” The low, harsh, voice comes from behind me. “You shouldn’t have come.”
I turn slowly. Ed Flaherty, wearing a worn slicker, a pair of seaman’s pants, and those stupid trademark cowboy boots of his, is standing behind me. He has a weapon in his hand, an automatic that looks as big as a cannon. It’s pointed right at my gut.
“Put your bag down,” he orders me, pointing to the table with his gun.
I carefully slip my day pack from my shoulders and lay it on the table. “That was your writing in her daytimer, wasn’t it?”
He bares his teeth in a lupine smile. “I figured you’d take the bait, if you found it. Which I set up pretty good, don’t you think?” He taps his temple. “Lots of book smarts, but not enough street smarts. You’re too damn predictable, Fritz. You want to play in this game, you’ve gotta zig when the other guy thinks you’re gonna zag.”
I turn accusatorily to Maureen. “I’m sorry, Fritz,” she says despondently. “I was hoping you wouldn’t fall for it. That you’d see through it.”
Of course I do, now, I think, kicking myself. A blind man could have read this in Braille from a mile away, after I figured out the mystery of the photographs. But I was too hell-bent on my vendetta to see clearly. “You know me pretty well, Maureen. Or whatever your name really is. I always act first and think later. When it comes to you, anyway.”
“Which is why you’re in shit up to your eyebrows,” Flaherty says.
“Where’s your partner in crime?” I ask heatedly. “Is he going to make his grand appearance at the appointed hour? Is he even showing up at all? Or is he going to leave the dirty work to you again, as usual?”
“Who’s that you’re talking about?” Flaherty asks me coyly.
The prick has to play games with me. “Roach, who else?”
Flaherty smiles. “Jim?” He shakes his head. “He’s not involved in this.”
“Yeah, right,” I reply bitterly. “His security coincidentally vanishes, you’re on his boat, but he’s not involved. Mr. Clean Hands. I’ve got enough street smarts to see through that one.”
“Don’t worry about Jim Roach,” he warns me. “You’ve got enough to worry about, with you and her. So shut your mouth about Roach.”
He motions toward the hatch door with the gun. “We’re gonna take a cruise, the three of us. A nighttime cruise on the ghost ship Helena. You—” he points to me—“go up top, cast us off, and take the boat out into the Bay. I’ll stay down here with the lady, where it’s warm and cozy.”
“Don’t do it, Fritz,” Maureen says sharply.
“Hey!” He takes a menacing step toward her. “Shut the fuck up.”
“You shut the fuck up,” she spits at him.
Flaherty’s face reddens. Then he rakes the side of the gun across her face, a hard whamp that sounds like a coconut being cracked open by a hammer.
“You bastard!” she cries out, her body convulsing in pain.
Reflexively, I start to lunge at him, but he pivots and points the gun at me again, inches from my face, freezing me. “Don’t be a hero, ace. You don’t have the chops for it.” He backs off, trains the gun on Maureen. “Do it,” he orders me.
“Fritz . . .” She’s whimpering now. Her face is ballooning where Flaherty coldcocked her. Her cheekbone could be broken—he hit her hard enough.
“Whatever you say,” I tell Flaherty. “But don’t hit her again.”
He’s cold: “That’s up to her.”
“Don’t provoke him anymore, Maureen,” I plead with her. “Please.”
“You think it’s going to matter?” She glares at him. She doesn’t back down, I’ll give her that. Not always the best attribute in a situation like this.
“Just don’t,” I plead with her. This disaster could spiral completely out of control. “It’s not going to help anything. I’ll do whatever you ask,” I promise Flaherty. “But stay cool, okay? Let’s everybody try to stay cool.”
“I am cool,” he says hotly. “Tell her.”
In response, she turns away.
I have to tamp this down. “Where are we heading?” I ask.
“We’ll worry about that once we’re out there,” he replies.
I go up top. It’s still raining, but not as hard as it had been earlier. I walk across the deck to the railing where the boat’s tied off, stop and look back to the cabin opening. From this angle I can’t see them, which means they can’t see me either. I turn and stare in the opposite direction. Nothing’s visible, 360 degrees—no lights, no bodies, nothing. Even the birds, bullfrogs, and crickets are silent. It’s spooky, the quiet is so pervasive. It’s as if the place has been evacuated, which makes sense—that we’re isolated is not an accident.
My mind is swirling with conflicting emotions. Maybe, I think for a fleeting moment, all this is the most elaborate hoax that’s ever been played. Maybe Flaherty and Maureen are in cahoots, trying to make it look like . . . What?
Get a grip, Fritz. Think how insane your logic has become. That’s the stupidest idea I’ve had yet. That was no love tap Flaherty laid on her. He could have split her skull open.
It wouldn’t be hard to cut and run in this darkness and weather. Get away from here, call the cops, leave Maureen to whatever fate Flaherty has planned for her. This was never my battle until I idiotically decided to get involved, which turned out to be a tragic mistake. Several tragic mistakes.
None of that matters now. Maureen and I have a history, which is undeniable. There are a handful of turning points in your life when you think you have a choice, and then find out you simply don’t.
I cast away the lines that secure the yacht to the dock, push off, and jump aboard. Carefully walking along the slippery deck to the rear of the cockpit, I turn the key in the ignition. The big diesel turns over. I thrust the throttle forward and begin to navigate the yacht through the narrow shoals that lead to the Bay.
In less than ten minutes we’re in open water. I stand at the helm, staring straight ahead, wondering what’s in store next.
“How’re we doing?”
I look over—Flaherty’s at the top of the stairs in the hatchway, his lank white hair plastered to his head from the rain.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Turn on the autopilot to the present course and come over here.”
I reach down and set the autopilot, cross to the doorway. Flaherty has a navigational chart in his hand. “Here,” he points. “We’re close to this place, aren’t we?”
I look at the chart. His finger is on Cloudshead Island, a small rocky outcropping in the middle of the Bay. It’s uninhabited, the terrain is too steep and cramped.
“Yes,” I tell him. “We’re close.”
“Take us there.”
“I’ll have to plot our course. I can’t do it up here, I need the compass.”
“Fine.”
Leaving the yacht on autopilot, I follow him below. Maureen’s eye is almost swollen shut, like a fighter’s. She looks up at me with her good eye as I enter the saloon. “I know,” she says with bite. “I look beautiful.”
I don’t answer. I have to try to keep a steady head. I sit down at the nav table, lay the chart out, and plot our course. Flaherty sits opposite me, near Maureen. I adjust the GPS. The boat turns slightly.
I turn on the radar. “I’m better off watching from down here. That way I can see if anything’s in our path, on this,” I say, tapping the screen.
“Whatever,” he answers laconically. “Just get us there in one piece.”
I turn to Maureen. “Are you thirsty? Want some water?”
She starts to say no, then changes her mind. “Yes, please. Thanks.”
I open the refrigerator, take out a bottle of Evian, open it, hand it to her. She takes a long, thirsty swallow.
/> “How about putting some ice on that?” I ask, pointing to her eye.
“Leave off the Florence Nightingale shtick,” Flaherty rasps. “This isn’t a floating hospital.”
“I’ll be all right,” Maureen tells me, glaring at him with her good eye. She holds the cold bottle to her face.
“Lighten up,” I beseech Flaherty. “You’re holding a lethal weapon on us. You’re in control.”
He grunts, then turns to the radar screen. “Is that where we’re going?” he points. “Looks like we’re close.”
I nod. “A few minutes.”
“When we get there, drop anchor near shore, then come back down.” He points his gun at Maureen to make sure I get the message.
We’re all on edge. I concentrate on the radar. The blip that’s the island is getting closer to our track. A few minutes later, when we’re on top of it, I go up on deck. The rain is slackening off. I feed out the chain until I feel the anchor hit bottom and set. Then I tie the line off, make sure it’s secure, and go below again. Flaherty motions me to sit down, next to Maureen. Then he gives me a penetrating look.
“One thing I’ve got to know. When did you figure out it was me?”
I look at Maureen for a moment, then turn back to him. “Not until today,” I admit.
He stares at me in astonishment. “It sure as hell took you long enough,” he rebukes me. “But then again, you weren’t looking for me, were you?”
“Not until recently, no.”
My second meeting with old Mr. Simmons had clarified what I’d discovered in the documents. Roach and Flaherty had been a great one-two punch for decades: Roach the front man, the smooth talker, the con artist who could sell oil to the Arabs, Flaherty the behind-the-scenes operative who did the heavy lifting, the murders and the necessary brutal acts.
“But around 1987,” I had told Simmons, “Flaherty dropped out. It’s like he disappeared, or retired.”
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