"I guess I'm going to have to teach you a lesson, shorty" the big man says, and his fists come up. Then he swings a hard right at Blaine, and Blaine's old karate instincts take over and he ducks under it, at the same time using a sweeping defensive move with his arm. Then he kicks as hard as he can at the big man's leg. The leg tumbles right out from beneath Sketch, and he falls out of sight over the edge of the seawall.
Blaine runs to the edge and looks over, expecting to see him laid out on one of the rocks that are strewn at the base of the wall down most of its length. But there is only soft sand at this spot, and he is already struggling to his feet. Blaine drops down on him like a swooping hawk, and before he can get set, is swinging on him. He hits him with a three punch flurry: head, body, head, but the big man blocks most of that. Then he raises his hands at Blaine, yells "Stop."
Blaine says, "Stay the hell away, or I'll hit you again," and the guy pauses, staring. He is breathing like a freight train. "Where is Renee?" Blaine says.
"I don't know any Renee," he says. It sounds like truth to Blaine, but he can't be sure.
"The hell you don't," he says. "That cocktail waitress you were ogling in the club that night."
"You're going to need to be a little more specific," the guy says. "I look at a lot of girls. What do you care? Did she run away from you or something?"
Blaine doesn't see a trace of recognition in his eyes. He is either a very good liar or doesn't know anything about the whole deal. The trouble is that, from what Blaine has read, most of the guys who would do this sort of thing were very good liars. He can't let this guy just walk away.
"We'll let the cops settle that," he says. He sees a flicker in the big man's eyes. He doesn't like that.
"I don't have any business with the law," he says. He has caught his breath now and gets up, brushing sand off his pants, looking down at Blaine.
"You do now," Blaine says.
"Bullshit," the big guy says, and turns to walk away.
"We can do this the hard way," Blaine says, "or the easy." The big man turns, listening. "My girl is missing. You are the last guy I saw hassling her. Do you mean to tell me you don't remember me or her?"
Big man is staring at him. Something seems to click. "The fancy joint," he says, "right off the beach."
"Yep, the fancy joint."
"I remember now," the guy says. "I was two or three sheets to the wind. Renee is that cocktail waitress, the really hot one."
"Yes, the really hot one."
"You got up in my face."
"That's right," Blaine says. "I can do it again."
The big man is staring at him like he has put a puzzle together. "Why would you think she would be with me?" he says. When he says it like that, Blaine thinks he has been grasping at straws all along. A guy in a bar hits on his girl. That's all he really knows. "Guys hit on girls in bars every day," Sketch says. "Twice a day on Sunday. That's all I'm guilty of."
"Okay," Blaine says. "Be a good citizen then and come see the cops with me, clear this all up."
"Screw that," big man says. "In my mind, it's cleared up now. I'm getting out of here." He turns again and starts to walk off. Blaine pulls the .22 Mag out of his pocket and thumbs the hammer back.
"Halt," he says. "I am making a citizen's arrest."
The big man turns again and looks at the tiny .22 in his fist. "Are you kidding me?" he says. "Is that a real gun? I've never seen anything that small."
"I bet that's a lie," Blaine says, and they both laugh, though Sketch's seems forced. He has the gun leveled now in both hands, aimed straight at the big man's head. He doesn't like any of this, but he's not letting him go. That is not happening.
Suddenly from the top of the wall comes a shout: "Hadrock, put that damn gun down. Right now." He looks up and it is Nielson. The cavalry has finally arrived. "Right now," Nielson roars again. "Last chance." He has his own weapon out and leveled at Blaine. Blaine drops the gun on the sand.
"This is him, Nielson," he screams. He looks up and a couple of uniforms are behind Nielson, joining him, guns drawn. He sticks his hands high in the air to show he has no weapon now. He knows the way their adrenaline is pumping they will fire at any suspicious move and check stories later. He looks over at Sketch, and he has his hands in the air too. He is no dummy. Not his first police encounter, either, if Blaine is any judge. He breathes a sigh of relief. He has brought him to the cops. That part of the battle has been won.
Some three hours later he is sitting at Nielson's desk with him. They had taken him through the process, snapped his picture, booked him on some misdemeanor charge to cover their asses then let him go. They had done the same with the big man on the booking part, and Nielson tells him they are going to have to let him go, also.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because he's a citizen, and we don't have any reason to hold him," Nielson says. "He's spent a lot of time the last few days around different people, and they verify it. From the timeline we have, it is very doubtful that he could have grabbed her. We've got nothing on him." He taps a piece of paper on the desk. "We're not even watching his house," he says, gets up and stretches, walks over and looks out the window. Blaine is leaning over looking at the paper, which is angled sideways. Jackson Irons on Swordfish he reads, and has leaned back and is watching Nielson when he turns around.
Chapter 32
So Nielson doesn't have much to say besides the same old bull about not interfering, and letting the investigation proceed in its own way. He guesses he's lucky he got his guns back. If it had been somebody besides Nielson, he would still be in a cell, and the guns would be locked away in an evidence vault somewhere.
He doesn't know if he'd been allowed to see that address on purpose or not. Or if Nielson was telling him the truth about them ruling Sketch out. Nielson was a devious bastard. And he would have shot him out there on the wall; Blaine could hear it in his voice when he hollered at him. But he understood that. He would be the same way, he thinks. You don't pull a gun out unless you are prepared to use it.
It is just after dawn when he hits the house front door. He had called Todd the night before to let him know he had something going on so he wouldn't worry. Of course he hadn't thought he was going to spend the early morning hours in a jail cell.
Todd is still asleep, and Blaine prowls around the house, flips the computer on, makes a cup of coffee, sits down to think about it all. He rocks back and forth in the computer captain's chair. He replays the night's events in his mind. His gut is saying maybe Sketch was not involved in this deal. Everything about the way he had acted screamed innocent to Blaine. Of this particular crime, anyway. He acted like he had something to hide, but wow, who didn't? Everybody had some form of bony skeleton rattling around the closet, was Blaine's experience. No, he had seemed genuinely puzzled at first to see him. Blaine really didn't think he had remembered him. He thinks about that for a minute, wonders if the guy could have been fooling him, decides it's possible, if not likely. He just can't know for certain. He thinks about how it felt when he had the Mag aimed at Sketch. The way time had slowed down and his focus narrowed. It had felt like he had been caught up in something beyond his control, like a slow-motion avalanche. He had known that if the guy made him, he was going to stop him somehow. He tips back and forth in the chair, genuinely happy it had gone no farther.
So where does all this leave him? What next? He feels like Nielson cares about the case, but he has other cases, other priorities too. Cash didn't seem to be the motive, so this guy might never call the police again. He turns it all over in his mind, and his exhaustion must have caught up with him because when he wakes up a few hours later, still leaned back in the chair, Todd had tiptoed around him, left a note and is gone again.
He gets up slowly and stiffly. It is about noon. He guesses he could go take a look at Sketch's place. What else does he have to do? He can't think of any other direction to take things. He closes his eyes and focuses on Renee. Empties his mind of distracti
on and just listens. For what, he doesn't know. Anything. He is at a point where desperation is setting in. He had felt so strongly that Sketch was involved somewhere in this but is really doubtful now. Two hours sleep is not making things any clearer for him. He decides to go for a run even though he feels like a truck hit him. Not going to sleep the day away while some bastard has his girl.
The back door rattles and Todd is home.
"Man, you were out," he says, putting two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. "Cutting zees in that chair." Blaine nods, realizes that he hasn't thought of groceries in days, as Todd puts away eggs and milk and a bunch of other odds and ends.
"Thanks, bro," he says. "I've lost track of that stuff."
"No problem," Todd says. "Don't worry about it. I got this. How about some breakfast?"
"No, I feel like crap. I think I'll go for a run. Wanna come?"
"I'm going to eat. I'll tell you what: I'll leave you some eggs in the fridge in case you change your mind." Todd is rummaging through the bags, putting stuff up. He sneaks a look at Blaine. "That's great news about Renee. Do you need some help on anything?"
Blaine considers that, shakes his head, "No, I've got some things I need to take care of alone." He is thinking he will go watch Sketch's house from somewhere. He's got a good pair of Nike binoculars. He should take them. He doesn't want to pull Todd into that. "I know she's still alive, someplace, just don't know where."
"Man, you're not going to get into any more trouble are you?" his brother asks. "You know you can't go pulling guns on people in Galveston and expect to get away with it. I'm surprised they let you go this morning."
"How did you hear about it?" Blaine asks.
"Nielson called me."
"What, asked you to rein me in?"
"More or less," Todd says. "What do you expect? You and I both know when you pull a gun, bad things happen."
"Guy didn't give me any choice," Blaine says.
"See, that's what worries me," Todd says, shaking his head at him. They are standing by the kitchen counter now, staring at each other. "That you even think that. Stand back: let these guys handle this. I know you love Renee. They know you love Renee. But if you keep getting in the middle of their shit, things are going to go bad. You've spent a few hours in jail. How do you think a few months would feel? Or a few years?" Blaine stares harder, feeling the heat rushing to his face.
"Bad, man" he admits finally. "Like the end of the world."
Todd puts his hand on his shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze. "That's right. I don't want to see anything worse than has already happened to you happen." Blaine wills himself to calm down. At least his brother gives a damn. That's a good thing, even if misdirected sometimes.
"Okay, man," he says. "Don't worry. I promise not to go off half-cocked again."
"That's all I'm asking," Todd says. "Maybe leaving the guns at home would be a good idea for a while."
"Nope," Blaine says. "Not going to do that. I've carried these things for years and I'm not changing my ways now."
Todd shifts his eyes away, shrugs his shoulders.
"Nielson put you up to that too?" Blaine asks.
"He mentioned that it wouldn't be a bad idea," his brother says.
"I guess that all depends on where you're sitting," Blaine says. "I've never had to pull one on a person before in all the years I've carried them. I know that they are not for disputes or when somebody pulls your chain in an argument. But if you really get into trouble," he adds, cutting his eyes back at Todd, "you might wish you had one. It could save your ass."
"I've never needed one yet," Todd says.
"That's great, and I'm happy for you and hope you never do. But I'm keeping mine, just in case."
"Okay, Okay," Todd says, throws his hands up. "I tried. I really didn't think I would get very far with that anyway, but I thought I would try. Just don't do anything crazy."
"You saying I have a tendency to be dumb, huh?"
"You know that's not it," Todd says. "You've never been in a situation like this. Me either. I'm just afraid that at some point your emotions could get the better of you, and something you might regret later could happen. That's all I'm saying."
"Point taken," replies Blaine. They are standing in the kitchen now, face to face, each with arms at his sides, fists clenched in that classic confrontational stance. No finger-poking though. That's when things had always gotten out of hand when they were kids, when the finger-poking started. That was why they liked the arms down stance.
"Well, okay then," Todd says, and smiles, trying to lighten things up. "So, let's go surfing, what do you say?"
"Nah," Blaine says. "I'd like to, man, but I really do have a couple of things I need to do."
Chapter 33
Sketch's house is way back on the east end. It is set among all those streets he had detoured through the other day on his way to Renee's. Swordfish, another fish name.
This street is set apart from the others, though, fancier, with much bigger homes on larger lots. No direct access to the roads the tourists use to get to the ferry. Tucked back and hidden away. Blaine had forgotten this street even existed, though he had driven down it many years back. The houses are quite a distance from each other. Blaine drives slowly past the house address from Nielson's desk. It is one of those plantation-style homes with the pillars going all the way up to the top of the second floor. The lot has had dirt trucked in to raise the level up till it is some five feet higher than street level, to give protection from storm surge during hurricanes. The house is red brick with dark green shutters and white trim. A drive wanders down the side and curves around the back, where Blaine catches the glint off the waters of a pool. Wow. No wonder Nielson and the rest of the cops hadn't wanted to pay attention to his ramblings about Sketch's involvement in Renee's disappearance. This guy was seriously well-off. A house like this would go for over a million, he thinks.
He sets up down the street, far enough distant so that he can't be made out clearly with the naked eye. He can barely make anything out himself from this distance, just fuzzy outlines.
But when he brings the binoculars up, everything jumps into focus. It is like he is only feet away. His back window is tinted, and he has those little shades on the side windows that block the sun pulled down, so it is difficult for anybody to see into the truck from those directions. That leaves the front, but there is nothing he can do about that. He is out of view of the houses he is parked next to. It is the middle of the day so probably not many people are home, though this is the sort of neighborhood where folks would pay attention to strangers.
He watches for a few minutes, sees no sign of activity at all. The house has lots of windows and he moves the binoculars from one to another but nothing. This guy has some real money. Must have been slumming when he saw him in the club. Blaine never would have guessed it from his attitude on the sand. He had taken some serious shots and kept on coming. Whatever he was, coward or wuss weren't valid descriptions. He was plenty tough. Maybe that was how he had gotten the money.
He sits there for about an hour, and is starting to worry about somebody in this type of neighborhood calling him in to the cops, when a Beamer comes snaking out the big man's drive. He gets the binoculars up and sees the now fairly familiar profile in the driver's seat. Alone.
Sketch backs out in the brown Beamer with a tan roof, cuts the wheel and heads down the road the other way. Blaine has a moment of indecision. Follow him or try to get a look in the house? He wouldn't have the nerve to keep her in his home, would he? Blaine thinks that with a guy like this, he might. Might think he is wealthy and powerful enough to get away with that. He thinks about all the serial killer types. Charles Gacy had buried about thirty bodies right around his home. Bunch of others had pulled stunts like that. And so much of the time it took the cops a long while to cut through all the investigatory mumbo-jumbo and legal rights and actually search their places.
The car is becoming a small blotch at th
e far end of the road. Blaine sighs and steps out of the truck and hits the button to lock it, heads down the street. House it is.
He will just poke around, maybe look in a window if he gets a chance, he is thinking as he walks towards it. He glances left and right at the houses as he passes. Beautiful palms and landscaping. One place with a crew of Latino men working on the lawn, wearing sombrero-style hats to keep off the sun. One of them glances up at him, then right back down at the earth he is shifting with a shovel. Not much curiosity there, Blaine thinks, and keeps moving.
At the big man's house he goes up the front walk to the door and rings the bell. If he drives back up now, he will just give him some bullshit story about trying to apologize for the mistake and inconvenience of the night on the sand. He might not go for it, but what is he going to do? Call him a liar? Call the cops and say he is being stalked? He could, Blaine thinks, but something about the way he had acted during their confrontation said he wouldn't. For whatever reason, this guy didn't like the cops, which was a surprise in itself. Most people who had achieved this amount of success or wealth loved the law: would be hollering for them to straighten things out. But this guy hadn't.
He rings again. Give somebody time to show up at the door. He would bet a maid took care of this size house. Or maybe he didn't live alone. Certainly has enough room for a bus full of people.
But nobody comes. He is reluctant to fool with the knob, with all the potential onlookers in upstairs windows up and down the street. After a minute more, he steps off the porch and heads around the side towards the back yard. He casts his gaze at the house across the road and down a bit but sees no sign of life there. Nothing the other way, either.
Then he is around the corner of the house and partly sheltered from prying eyes. The back yard is surrounded by an eight foot cedar fence, though most of the houses on the street are multi-storied, and the second story in the one directly to the side of Sketch's house overlooks the yard where Blaine is now.
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