Red Sky At Night (Thorn Series Book 6)

by James W. Hall

  Bean wiped the moisture from his face. They were four or five miles offshore, Key West a hazy silhouette.

  "Oh, here we go," Bean said. "Thorn's going to do the math, figure out how much prison time I should serve. His own little moral formula."

  Behind Bean, coming up the stairway, was a small Asian man in droopy yellow shorts and a shirt as green and shiny as a lizard's new skin. He paused at the head of the stairs and craned his head up as if trying to see Pepper on the flybridge.

  "From what I saw," said Thorn, "those eleven dolphins were making hundreds of people feel better, a little at a time. Lessening their pain, making some pretty shitty lives tolerable. How do you work it out in your head, Bean, that the pain in your missing legs is more important than all that?"

  "I don't try. That's for assholes like you. People trying to score points with God."

  "How about you, Greta? You think that's a fair swap, eleven dolphins to make your pain go away?"

  "It didn't go away," she said.

  "What?" Bean stepped around in front of her, putting his back to Thorn.

  "It subsided for a day, but the drug wore off and now the pain's as bad as it was before. Maybe worse."

  "You're lying. You little bitch, don't try to jerk me around. It won't work."

  Thorn watched a swell roll toward them and held hard to the cleat during the steep ride up and over the wave.

  "It's true," she said. "I was in some kind of swoon overnight, but now that it's over, I feel all the pain I felt before. And then some."

  Bean rocked toward her, a tremble coming into the hand holding the pistol. Thorn looked out to the west and saw the next big roller heading toward them. Timing its approach, he reset his butt against the seat, took a hard grip on his wheels.

  "You lying cunt. Don't play your fucking games with me."

  Bean raised his hand as if he meant to pistol-whip the truth from her and Thorn delayed a half second more till the big wave rocked beneath the boat and tipped the deck severely, giving him a downhill angle on Bean. As Bean swung the pistol toward Greta's jaw, Thorn cranked the chair forward, accelerated down the steep incline, and slammed hard into the back of Bean's legs.

  Bean crumpled sideways to the deck, and as he was falling Thorn lunged for his wrist, fumbled for a second, then got it, wrenched the automatic from his hand and with a backhanded flick he sailed the pistol overboard.

  Thorn twisted out of his chair, let his deadweight fall on top of Bean. He squirmed onto his belly, chest to chest with Bean. And he grabbed hold of Bean's ears and slammed his head back against the deck, slammed it a second time and once more until his old friend's eyes rolled back. Thorn rolled off, heaving for breath.

  He hauled himself back to his chair, and elbowed up into his seat again.

  "The big man has done our work for us. Many thanks, sir."

  Smiling, the Asian man stepped forward and showed the group his shiny pistol. He held it at eye level, rocking it from side to side as though he were waving a flag at a political rally. Then he waggled the revolver at Thorn, backing him off. The man wore a pair of bright yellow shorts that drooped below his knees.

  Pepper climbed down from the flybridge.

  "You didn't need to hurt Bean. Nobody told you to do that. He didn't do anything to you."

  Thorn said, "Turn us around, Pepper, take us back in. You do it now, it's going to go lighter on you."

  "Yeah, right. We're going to take you back to shore. Of course we are. Whatever you say, weenie breath."

  "People know we're out here. They're coming for us now."

  "They are, are they?" Pepper gazed around at the rocking seas. "And where would they be, these people?"

  Bean groaned but stayed down. There was blood on the deck where Thorn had slammed his head.

  "They're invisible," Thorn said. "They paint themselves black, the blackest black there is. No light reflects off them. You won't see them till they're on top of you."

  Pepper gave Thorn a long smile. "Hey, Tran, we got invisible people after us."

  "This man is crazy. Maybe we should put him out of his misery now."

  "A color so dark no light reflects? Is that possible, you think? There a black that's that dark?"

  Tran spit out something in Vietnamese.

  Stalling was about all Thorn could manage. Even if his pistol was within easy reach, the odds weren't on his side. Nothing to do but wait and delay, hope that Monica and Doc Wilson had not lost track of the Miss Begotten in the rough seas.

  The Asian man stepped over to Bean and gave him a miserable smile. With a savage cry, Tran kicked him in the ribs and Bean jerked away and hugged his chest.

  "The drug doesn't work. You hear that, Pepper? This whole goddamn thing was a big waste. You Americans, you are nothing but a bunch of children playing games. Bunch of fools.

  "It is no wonder to me you lost the war. I see it now. All the shit you waste, the money, the time, and food. Spoiled Americans. If Vietnam had all you have, a little country like mine would be the strongest in the world. You Americans get some extra money, you stay drunk until your money is gone. Party, party, party. You lost the war because you are weak, because all you want is to have a good time."

  "Hell, that's just Key West, Tran," Pepper said. "It's not America. You got it wrong. Don't be bad-mouthing my country, okay? You don't know what you're saying."

  He aimed the gun at Bean, then focused it on Thorn.

  "It's okay, Tran." Pepper stepped over to him, looped an arm through his. "We'll just go ahead like we planned. Give the formula to your science people, let them fiddle with it till the thing works."

  "And these weenies?"

  "Like we discussed," Pepper said. "No reason to change anything."

  Tran sighed.

  "It doesn't matter. Not really. I am taking something home with me better than any miracle painkiller. Pepper, my queen."

  "You're a sweet man. Very sweet."

  Tran's finger was curled hard against the trigger, pointing his weapon halfway between Thorn and Greta. At best Thorn would surprise them, duck down, get his pistol, roll out of the chair, maybe get off one free shot, go for Tran, but if his first wasn't fatal, he was finished.

  "All right then, Tran. You ready to blow this old tub?"

  Pepper stepped down the stairs of the companionway to the lower deck. She'd only been gone a moment when the first shot sounded.

  ***

  Pepper had lived aboard the Miss Begotten all her life, only home she'd known. Where her father made love to her the first time, where she brought home the first guy after the old man died, some hairy Italian who said he was a writer, and she rolled around with him for a couple of days before she asked him if he was going to write a story about her. Not unless you start doing something interesting, he said to her.

  That's when Pepper told him he wasn't half as good as the sixty-year-old guy she'd slept with for ten years. And he wasn't. Premature ejaculator. Teensy dick. Nothing like her dad. The guy acted like she was joking. But Pepper let him know she wasn't. No, sir, that sixty-year-old man could keep going all night long, never let up. And he had the equipment a woman needed for her complete satisfaction. What exactly are you trying to say? the writer asked her. And quick as that, she said back to him, You're a writer, you ever come across the word repugnant? The guy didn't think that was funny and he got his clothes together and said a few impolite things to her and left.

  But even with all the happy memories Pepper Tremaine had of the boat, there were just as many that went the other direction. In fact, some of the very same moments she could look at either way. Turn it a little this way and she could see the horror of her life with her dad. Turn it a few degrees the other direction and it was the rosiest childhood a kid could've had. Much as she loved that old ship, she guessed she hated it too. So when it came down to it, it wasn't that hard to sink the sucker.

  It took her a few minutes of searching before she found her .357 Smith on a countertop in Greta's
cabin. Not where she'd left it. She checked the cylinder. Two cartridges spent. She took the pistol to her cabin, got her ammo out, reloaded, then went forward to the engine hatch. She rolled the carpet aside, dragged open the heavy door.

  Only the first squeeze was difficult, seeing the hull splinter and the gush of seawater flood around the big diesels. But after that, the rest came easy. She reloaded and opened up six more fist-size holes in the old wood hull, and stood there watching the water rise, coming slowly up to the deck.

  She stared down at the seawater till it covered her tennis shoes, soaked them through, which seemed to wake her from her dreaming, and she turned and hustled back up the steps to the upper deck where Greta Masterson, the pretty cripple, was screaming.

  CHAPTER 32

  Seven orange life jackets and five white cushions were drifting, thirty, forty yards to the east, already bobbing in a fast current heading away from the boat. As Tran hurled the last of the white flotation cushions overboard Greta screamed at him again. Told him to stop immediately, drop his weapon. She was a federal agent. Tran didn't seem to hear her, mumbling to himself in the strange cadences of his own tongue. These lazy Americans, these ineffectual, boneless Westerners. Too many movies, too much booze, too many prayers to their indolent god. A reasonable mistake for an outsider to make, easy to miss the gristle below the blubber.

  While Tran hurled the life jackets overboard, Thorn managed to pull the Colt from the bottom of his seat. He tucked the pistol into the crevice between his right hip and the aluminum plate of his chair. There wasn't a clean shot to be had. Greta and the fighting chair were squarely in his way. And then with Thorn trying to angle his chair to the right for a clear path to Tran, Pepper appeared, moving fast, coming right over to Thorn and jamming her hot barrel into his cheek.

  "So where's these invisible people?"

  "They're here now. They're among us."

  "Yeah, why aren't they saving your ass then?"

  "They're peaceful types. Conscientious objectors."

  "Make love not war, huh? Those people?"

  "That's right. But don't underestimate them."

  She clicked the hammer back, digging the steel against a molar.

  "You think I'm goofy? You think I'm some kind of cracker you can scare with ghost stories?"

  "They're here," Thorn said. "Watching you. Like your conscience. They'll follow you to the end of the fucking earth, record everything you do. Present you with the list when you die."

  Pepper stepped back and gave him a long look. She raked the hair from her face, rubbed the sleeve of her sweatshirt against her nose.

  "Too bad we're not going to have a chance to get to know each other better," she said. "You're just weird enough, we might've been friends."

  "Come on," Tran called to her. "The boat's going down. We must make haste, leave now."

  Bean was sitting up, gripping his head—a melon split down the middle, about to fall into halves.

  Tran pushed open the transom door and climbed down to the dive platform. As it settled deeper into the sea, the big yacht wasn't lurching as much as before. An ominous tranquility.

  Pepper walked over to Bean, pointed the pistol at his head.

  "You could've had me," she said. "You could be going off right now to spend the rest of your life in my arms. But no, you had to punch me. You had to break my fucking jaw."

  Bean stared up into the dark cylinder, his eyes cleansed of emotion, as resigned as he must have been that night on the hillside in Vietnam. Ready to go. Let it be finished. Take another ride on the great roulette wheel of rebirth, better luck next time.

  "I committed some bad shit for you," she said. "I was willing to do about anything so you could get over your pain, 'cause I thought when it went away, you'd look up and see me standing there, see what'd I done, and you'd be grateful.

  "But now I know how wrong I was. You don't have a thankful bone in your fucking body. You're one of those assholes who think it's all owed to you and you shouldn't have to do a damn thing to get what you want. Money, good looks, education. You think everyone is there to make you happy and take out your trash. And when you're in pain the whole goddamn world should stop and bow down.

  "Well, that's the way a little kid thinks. That's the way I thought when I was five or six. But I got over it pretty quick. And most everybody else gets over it too, but you never did. You think 'cause your daddy didn't love you like you wanted him to, and 'cause you got a terrible agony where your legs used to be, that makes you more important than anybody else, it gives you some kind of fucking privilege to do whatever the hell you want. But no, it's just pain, Bean. Not a license to fuck up other people's lives. It's just this bad thing that's happening to you. That's all.

  "And you could've had all the love any man could've stood. All you had to do was to've glanced up once and seen the way I was looking at you and you could have had every single bit of me. I tried to make myself over, learn the things I'd need to know to love you better. But you never looked up. You couldn't even do it now. Not even to save your life. You don't see me standing here, still right to the bitter fucking end giving you a chance to say the words. All you see is whatever ugly fucking shitstorm is going on inside your own rotten head.

  "A handsome guy like you, beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, hell, I was an idiot to fall for a guy like you. You probably can't even have sex. You're always feeling so fucking sorry for yourself, for how you didn't get loved enough or the right way, you got no idea how to go about loving somebody else. And that's sad, Bean. That's real goddamn sad is what that is. Even Pepper Tremaine is better than that. Poor dumb redneck cracker like me.

  "So you're on your own now, buckaroo. Let's see how far you can get all by yourself for once. Nobody doing your work for you, nobody to boss around. Let's see how it is now, by god."

  Pepper turned away from him and looked again at Thorn.

  "You all have yourself a nice swim," Pepper said. "Maybe your invisible friends can keep you afloat."

  She followed Tran down to the dive platform, where he'd hauled the Zodiac alongside. Stumbling to his feet, Bean called out to her and limped toward the transom.

  The Zodiac's outboard roared to life and the raft began to glide away, surprisingly swift as it slithered atop the choppy sea.

  Thorn grabbed for the Colt, but it bumped the chair's leather armrest and he fumbled for it and it clattered to the deck and slid into Bean's path.

  Bean stared down at it, glanced at Thorn, then dropped to his knees and scrabbled for the pistol. With a quick crank, Thorn surged forward and ran the hard wheels of his chair across Bean's wrist. The pistol squirted away and Thorn tumbled forward out of his seat and fell onto Bean's back and pinned him there.

  But his advantage was brief.

  Bean twisted out from under him. Sinew and muscle, hard as a snake. With a wrestler's squirming quickness, he was suddenly on top, his butt anchored to Thorn's belly. Thorn outweighed him by thirty pounds, but without the use of his legs, there was no way he could toss Bean off. No physical way, at least.

  Thorn grinned up at him.

  "Boy, oh boy. Pepper nailed your ass, didn't she, Bean? Sliced right down to the fucking bone."

  Bean reached down and gripped Thorn's ears, lifted his head up and bounced it off the deck. Sparks danced at the edges of his sight and blood fluttered in his chest. Bean went out of focus for a moment, and Thorn spoke to his blurry image.

  "One thing she left out though, something she had no way of knowing."

  Thorn gripped Bean's wrists but could not peel his hands away. Thorn's ears were on the verge of tearing free at the roots.

  "Those pictures on your wall. I look at them and I can see what was just outside the frame. Other people, Gaeton, Sugarman, Darcy, all our friends. Your mother, mine, our fathers. They were all there, Bean. It was always swarming with people. And there were lots of pictures of them too. But it was just those snapshots you saved. You picked them out of the pile and stuck
them on your wall because they told the story you want to believe. The one that makes you such a tragic goddamn figure.

  "I'm the one you picked to blame it on. Convenient Thorn, the kid who got more love than you. The one responsible for all the emptiness you feel inside. But you're dead wrong, Bean. You were the only son your father ever wanted. Yeah, maybe he loved your mother more than he loved you, but so what? You were number two. You were still in the center of every shot he took. You were the reason those photographs got taken.

  "And here you've been looking for something that was missing all these years, feeling the pain of its absence, but the joke is, Bean, it was never gone. It was always there. The man who took those snapshots loved you, God help him, he loved you the best he knew how. And he still does. You and you alone. Even now, even knowing the shit you've been up to."

  Bean let go of his ears.

  "He sent me to fucking 'Nam. He sent his own son off to get killed."

  "He did what he had to do. That's all. He had no choice."

  "Bullshit. There's always a choice. He could've pulled strings like he did with you. You got out. He made sure of that."

  "I never registered for the draft, Bean. My name was never on the list. Your father didn't get me out. He just ignored me."

  Bean bowed his head as if he felt the sudden weight of the truth.

  "He sent me, Thorn. He sent his own son."

  "Maybe it was because he thought you were strong, Bean. You ever consider that? Because he thought you could be heroic and brave. Because he believed in you. Loved you."

  "Well, he was wrong. I wasn't brave. I wasn't heroic. I got fucked up."

  "And that's why you paralyzed me, Bean. To square it all up. Sitting there on your mountaintop, deciding who lives, who dies. That's why you did it, isn't it?"

  Bean reached to the side for the pistol and picked it up.

  Thorn held his eyes, things coming slowly back into focus. He lowered his hands, poised to knock the pistol free, wrestle it from him, whatever it took. But Bean set the pistol on Thorn's chest and he struggled to his feet.