Blood in the Water

by Michael Prescott

  Cohawkin Bridge, the main causeway to the island, had been blocked off with a row of huge trash bins to prevent looters from taking advantage of the storm, but Frank found a smaller bridge obstructed only by a parked police car, currently unoccupied. He slipped the Mercedes into low gear, dug his bumper into the cruiser’s side door, and bulldozed the offending vehicle out of his way. There would be some damage to his car’s front end, but he had a mechanic who owed him a favor and would fix it at cost.

  With the car butted aside, the way was clear—well, as clear as it could be in the midst of a fucking hurricane.

  It was weird, passing through miles of desolation, a chain of ghost towns with boarded-up windows and sandbagged yards. Weirder still to know that a lot of this real estate would be gone, washed away, before Sandy was through. The bars and diners were all closed, the rows of 1950s era motels abandoned, the Army and Navy surplus stores shuttered. Over one town loomed a water tower sporting an image of two happy dolphins at play. It looked out of place, like a clown at a funeral.

  The weather was rapidly deteriorating. Driving south along the main drag on Devil’s Hook was like taking a trip through one of those drive-through car washes. Sheets of rain rippled across the windshield. The wind gusted with enough force to knock both sideview mirrors off kilter.

  Frank didn’t care. He’d been through many kinds of hell. By his standards, a hurricane hardly even registered as an inconvenience.

  Half an hour after crossing over, he arrived at the cottage. Alec’s Porsche was out front, a bad sign. The kid should have been gone hours ago, along with everybody else.

  From a gym bag in the Mercedes’ trunk Frank retrieved a Ruger .22. He kept it cocked and locked as he explored the cottage.

  The front door was ajar, another cause for concern. The power was off, naturally. Every traffic light Frank had passed on the island had been dead, not that it had mattered, since nobody was on the road.

  Gusts of windblown sand lashed the windows. Through the rippling glass he could see a bloom of whitecaps on the ocean. The walls trembled; pressing his palm flat against the plasterboard, he could feel the fury of the wind.

  In the kitchen he discovered a flood tide of water and an open door to the cellar. Down below, the water was waist-high and still rising.

  He had a feeling Alec was down there, and his feelings rarely steered him wrong. He stripped to his briefs and waded into the chilly black water. It took him five minutes of searching, guided by the beam of a big steel flashlight, but in the end he found his nephew, afloat in a corner near the plumbing’s main shutoff valve.

  Frank had seen a lot of death, and he wasn’t troubled by the sight of a corpse. The fact that it was his nephew disturbed him in a distant way, like the first faint rumble of thunder that announced the approach of a storm. The rumble grew distinctly louder when he flipped the kid over and his flashlight pinpointed two holes in his chest.

  Those holes had stopped leaking blood a few hours ago, but Frank had no difficulty identifying them as bullet holes—.38 caliber, he estimated—a pair of them, nice and neat, the work of a pro.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fucking fuck fuck.”

  His bare foot trod on a wrench that lay on the cellar floor. Evidently Alec had been trying to close the shutoff valve. Frank didn’t need a wrench. With one hand and only modest effort, he cranked the valve shut. He’d never lost an arm wrestling contest or failed at any other test of strength.

  Then he muscled his nephew’s body into his arms. The dead man’s clothes were sodden and heavy, and the high water impeded movement, but Frank barely noticed the strain of carrying his burden across the flooded room and up the dripping stairs.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bonnie was a block from her home when the black-and-white behind her blooped its siren and flashed its light bar.

  Great. What now?

  Maguire’s troops had been riding her pretty hard lately. Traffic stops, bullshit citations. Harassment—that’s what it was. They were treating her like a criminal. Well, okay, she was a criminal, but she still didn’t like it.

  At least she’d ditched the murder gun. It had gone out the window into Shipbreak Bay during her drive home. If the local constabulary were to find that piece of hardware on her, she’d have some ’splainin’ to do.

  Reluctantly she pulled over to the curb and cranked down the window on the driver’s side. The cop was riding solo, and she was surprised to see that it was one of the good guys, a rookie called Walsh, first name Bradley. He was new enough to not be completely under Maguire’s thumb, and he hadn’t gotten on her case before. He’d always been nice to her. As a matter of fact, she strongly suspected he had a crush on her, the poor kid. Apparently nobody had informed him that dating her would be fatal to his career, and somehow he hadn’t yet figured out that she was, not to put too fine a point on it, a heartless bitch.

  He stepped up quickly to her window, looking all spiffy in his uniform—but also, she thought, looking nervous as hell. The rain had let up for a minute, but he still got flecked with windblown spray as he leaned down to talk.

  “Hi, Bonnie.”

  “Hey, Bradley. What law am I violating now? Dirty license plate? Improperly inflated tires?”

  “Well, you did sort of role through that stop sign.” He smiled, but it didn’t last. His boyish face was unusually grave. “That’s not why I pulled you over. I’ve got some news for you. Some not-so-good news.”

  “Okay.”

  “I guess I’m sort of talking out of school. The chief doesn’t want us putting the word out. But—well, I thought you had a right to know.”

  “To know what, exactly?”

  He leaned closer, raindrops trickling off his hat brim. “The Long Fong Boyz are after you.”

  “Say again?”

  “The Long Fong Boyz.”

  She squinted at him. “Are you coming on to me?”

  “I’m serious. They’re a Chinese-American outfit. The name means dragon gang boys.”

  “Dragon gang boys,” she repeated, mystified.

  “They spell ‘boys’ with a z,” Bradley pointed out helpfully.

  “Yeah, all the cool kids are doing that.” She’d never heard of them. “They’re not active around here, are they?”

  “They travel. But mainly they operate in NYC and north Jersey.”

  “And they’re after me? After me, how? Like, they wanna hire me? They wanna talk to me? They wanna date me?”

  “They want to kill you.”

  She puffed up her cheeks and blew them flat. “I was afraid that was it. Any idea why?”

  “I sort of figured you would know.”

  “Not a clue.” The Long Fong Boyz. Hell. It was like being hunted by porn stars—although at least that scenario offered the prospect of a happy ending. “Did they put out a contract for any takers, or are they keeping this in-house?”

  “It’s just them, for now.”

  She nodded. That was something, at least. Bad enough to deal with one gang. Way worse to deal with every freelance hitter in the tri-state area looking to score.

  “And how long has my friendly neighborhood police department been in possession of this info?” she asked.

  “Just since last night. A CI in Jersey City gave it up, and the Jersey City cops passed it on to us. Because, you know, you’re local.”

  Jersey City. That was interesting. It suggested possibilities. “And Maguire wasn’t planning to share this tidbit with me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m guessing he won’t offer me any special protection either.”

  “I asked the chief about that. He just looks at me like I’m a retard and says we can’t spare the manpower.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve been cruising past your place pretty regular—you know, just to keep an eye on it.”

  “And scare off the riffraff.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  His instincts were right. Her home probab
ly was where they would do it—there, or at her office. A drive-by, a few rounds expended as she walked to the door or stood at the window, a quick kill. And another notch in some hitter’s gun. Not that she was in any position to criticize.

  “You can’t look after me all by yourself,” she said quietly, “though it’s sweet of you to try.”

  He actually blushed. He was younger than she was by a couple years, and he hadn’t seen the things she’d seen. He was still a kid.

  “Just doing what I can,” he said modestly. “I can’t figure the chief out. I almost think he wants them to ice you.”

  “Yeah, well, him and me haven’t exactly been exchanging Christmas cards.”

  “Even so, he’s got a duty to protect you.”

  Bonnie gave his shoulder a playful rap. “I like you, kiddo. But you might be better off in some other jurisdiction. Utah, maybe—you know, where the Osmonds live.”

  “The Osmonds?” He didn’t get it.

  “What I’m saying is, Jersey cops have a rep for not always playing it strictly by the book. Even the good ones. And Maguire—well, I hate to break it to you, but he ain’t one of the good ones.”

  “According to the chief, you’re the one who’s the bad guy.”

  “Yeah. So he’s told me.”

  “You telling me you’re one of the good guys?”

  That was a good question. She thought it over. “Let’s just say I could be a lot worse.”

  “That’s not a great answer.”

  “It’s the best I can do. Look, thanks for the heads-up.”

  “You need to take this seriously, Bonnie.” His earnestness was simultaneously touching and silly. “These gangbangers might have a funny name, but they’re the real deal.”

  “Don’t sweat it, pal. I’m taking it seriously. Believe me. Anything else I should know?”

  He hesitated, looking up and down the street as if afraid someone might be spying on their little tête-à-tête. “I think the chief is building a case against you.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. He’s keeping it to himself. But I’ve seen the folder he carries around. It’s got your name on it, and it’s getting bigger and bigger. And last week he took a trip to Ohio. Buckington, Ohio—if that means anything to you.”

  It meant a lot. She did her best not to show it.

  “Thanks, Brad. You’re a stand-up guy. An officer and a gentleman.”

  She watched as he returned to his car. Once he was inside, she sketched him a wave and drove on.

  What a mess. Of the two developments, the Asian gang clearly posed the more immediate danger.

  But it was Maguire’s foray into Buckington, Ohio, that really made her sweat.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the kitchen, Frank laid his nephew’s body on a countertop and stripped it bare—shoes, pants, shirt, briefs. The wet clothes went into a garbage bag. In one of the kid’s pockets there was a cell phone, waterlogged, ruined. The SIM card, though, was salvageable. Frank removed the card and tossed the rest of the phone into the trash.

  He spoke no words to the corpse. Too much time had passed; the spirit was no longer on this plane. The immortal essence of his nephew was already in the next world, facing judgment.

  Frank didn’t like to think about that. He had too good an idea what his own judgment would be.

  He dried himself off and put on his clothes, then slung Alec’s nude body over his shoulder and carried it to the beach.

  The ocean was wild, a living thing. Frank deposited the body in a thicket of seagrass, where he piled up pebbles and shells in a makeshift cairn. He laid Alec’s head atop the little monument. The kid’s eyes were open. Frank shut them.

  With a knife from the kitchen, he traced a thin line along the edge of his palm, opening a seam of flesh. He stood over the body, squeezing out a coppery trickle that pattered on Alec’s face. The anointment complete, he bandaged his hand in a white handkerchief, which was instantly blotted with red. His hand hurt, but the pain didn’t trouble him. Pain, like blood, was a thank-offering to his guardian angel, the patron saint of the outlaws and the dispossessed.

  Frank Lazzaro had always been lucky. Twenty years in the life, and only two prosecutions, no convictions? He’d long suspected that some higher power was looking out for him. Two years ago his suspicion was confirmed. He’d been doing business in Mexico City when an associate suggested he attend a ceremony in a barrio—a rosary service for Santa Muerte, Saint Death, a cloaked hag with a skull face who looked after murderers and drug runners. Some wetback superstition, Frank figured.

  Reluctantly he joined a couple of thousand worshipers clustered in the festering heat at dusk. He was prepared to leave early if the rites proved too boring or too crazy.

  Instead he stayed until the end, transfixed by the ecstatic chants, the ribbons of smoke from votive candles, and the march of supplicants to the altar, where they offered up their homely treasures—a lock of hair, an heirloom ring, a family photo, a few coins, even small bottles of mescal and bags of cannabis.

  Frank came away changed. He now had a name and an image for the spectral presence he had always dimly intuited. He knew whom to thank for his good fortune. No, she could not save him from his ultimate fate—he still expected to pass over to a place of bitterness and screams when his earthly sojourn was done. The outer darkness, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth …

  There was a price to be paid for everything. A man who’d done the things he’d done deserved nothing else. Still, the saint would safeguard her devotees as best she could while they were alive. It was all he could ask.

  Back home, he had built a shrine to Santa Muerte in his bedroom, paying her nightly obeisance. Like the barrio congregation, he both loved and feared Saint Death. She was his helpmate and protectress, and she was a bitch and a man-eater, a stone killer who would turn on him in an instant if he ever let her down. That was okay. He could never have respected her if she’d been any different.

  He had told none of this to his friends and colleagues. They wouldn’t have understood. Only Victoria knew. She didn’t understand, either—she thought it was all voodoo and witchcraft—but that didn’t matter. Her opinion didn’t mean a fucking thing.

  Returning to the cottage, he rummaged in the garage until he found a can of kerosene for a barbecue grill. He emptied the can over Alec’s corpse, letting the fuel mix freely with the cascading rain and spray of surf. Then he lit a match.

  Alec Dante’s mortal remains went up in a cough of flame that painted the beach in tiger stripes of orange. Frank watched from a respectful distance, unconcerned about witnesses. No one was left on Devil’s Hook but himself and the dead man, and as he watched, the dead man vanished in a pillar of gray smoke and glittering cinders.

  “Santa Muerte,” Frank whispered. “Santa Muerte.”

  He needed her guidance now, more than ever. She would lead him to his nephew’s killer. She would see that justice was done.

  When the fire had diminished to a sputtering afterglow, Frank approached the charred ground. The seagrass had been burned away. Blistered shells lay scattered here and there, some cracked by the heat; during the ceremony he’d heard them pop and crackle like chestnuts.

  With a stick of driftwood he poked among the parts of Alec Dante that hadn’t burned, the teeth and some of the larger bones. He’d brought another trash bag with him for just this purpose. Heedless of the stinging rain, he collected the scraps, transferring them to the bag.

  Done, he spent some time disarranging the sand so any small pieces he might have overlooked would be safely buried. An unnecessary precaution; at high tide, the beach would be awash, all remaining evidence swept away.

  He carried the two bags and the empty kerosene can to his car, putting everything into the trunk. He left the Porsche parked where it was. Later he would send some of his guys to make it disappear.

  He wanted nothing that would point to a crime, nothing that would bring in the police. A
t most, let them list Alec as a missing person—if there was anyone who would bother to file a report. Most likely there wasn’t. Alec had been unsocial, friendless. A hard man to like. An even harder man to love.

  But Frank had loved him. He might have found the kid exasperating, irresponsible, selfish, lazy, immature—he might have voiced a hundred similar complaints—but Alec had been his closest blood relative outside his own children, a kid he’d known since infancy, a kid he’d watched over and looked after just as the skeleton saint watched over Frank himself.

  Somebody had murdered the boy. Shot him in the heart in the flooded basement of his own house, two days before Halloween.

  And that fucker was going to pay.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bonnie drove home to her duplex on Windlass Court, musing on what Bradley had told her and wondering just how worried she should be.

  The detached garage alongside the duplex would be a good place for an ambush. And right now she was in the rare position of being unarmed. Well, que sera sera. She parked the Jeep and walked briskly to her front door, not really expecting to be shot, but not ruling it out, either.

  No shots were fired. At the door she typed a six-digit code into the security system keypad, then went inside. With the door shut and locked behind her, she felt a little safer. But there was still a chance someone had found a way around the alarm and was waiting to take her by surprise indoors.

  She made her way to the bedroom. In the past she’d stored her weaponry in a small safe by her bed, but last month she’d switched her entire arsenal to a floor trap in the closet. Kneeling, she pulled up a loose floorboard and surveyed the equipment hidden in the crawlspace. She chose a .32 and crammed it into her purse. Damn, she’d gotten used to carrying a gun. She felt naked without one.