Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  Louis stepped over some large spools of fishing line and slid open the heavy steel door of the cabin. He stepped inside, wiping the water off his face.

  There were ten or more rows of padded red benches and tables. Large rectangular windows paneled both sides, under them knee-high metal storage boxes. Life jackets and looped twine hung on three posts that ran along the center.

  But no Lynch. He had gone back outside, or maybe down below.

  The door behind him clanged shut.

  Louis spun around, seeing only a blur of yellow move by a window. What the hell was going on?

  Another flash of yellow at the side windows. Two of them. Candy . . . he could make out his rain hat. But who . . . ?

  The other man’s face flashed against the glass. It wasn’t Lynch. It was Heller.

  Louis’s heart began to pound.

  A blur of yellow slammed against the window. Heller and Candy fighting.

  Louis grabbed the radio from his pocket and keyed it as he rushed to the door.

  “Chief! Chief! This is Kincaid! We’ve been ambushed on the Miss Monica!”

  He jerked at the door. It didn’t budge.

  He keyed the radio again, cutting off the frantic dispatcher. “I’m locked in the cabin,” Louis said, his words rushing out. “Officer Candy is on deck with the suspect. Repeat—we are separated!”

  Louis ran to the other door at the front of the cabin. It was locked.

  He hurried back to the left-side window. Up near the bow, he could see a man, lying facedown, in a yellow raincoat. But he couldn’t tell who it was.

  He could feel the vibrations under his feet growing stronger.

  Louis slammed his palms against the glass. “Candy!”

  The body didn’t move.

  Louis spun around, his eyes sweeping over the room. He could see no one, hear no one. The rain was deafening against the roof, the engines growling beneath his feet.

  He scanned the cabin for a weapon. Fishing poles, rope, life jackets, and nets. Wainwright’s voice drifted up to him and he lifted the radio.

  “Louis, status. What’s your status?”

  “We’re moving. Repeat—we’re moving.” He glanced back at the window. He couldn’t tell Wainwright that Candy was probably dead, not over the radio. “Chief, Sereno forty-five is injured. We need assistance. Now!”

  “We’re on it.”

  Louis lowered the radio, drawing in deep breaths. Stay calm. Stay calm.

  He walked slowly through the cabin, taking in every inch of the room. Every few steps he would stop at one of the windows to see if Candy had moved. He had not.

  He spotted another ladder in the middle of the room, a small one that seemed to disappear into the top deck. He moved to it slowly and looked up. It opened up onto a small hatch. He could see what looked like a blanket and maybe a bunk above.

  A face suddenly appeared in the square.

  Heller. But not the shy-eyed young man he had met a few weeks ago. This man stared down at him with unnerving dark eyes and long, dark wet hair that hung to his jaw.

  Louis didn’t move, locking eyes with Heller. His heart was hammering, but he forced his words out slowly and evenly.

  “Why’d you hurt him?” Louis demanded.

  “He didn’t have to come,” Heller said. “He was stupid.”

  Louis turned, grabbed a fishing pole, and came around swinging. He slammed it against the open hatch. Heller’s face disappeared and the hatch slammed shut.

  Louis swallowed hard and moved back to the windows, throwing the rod aside. The shoreline was growing more distant. Lights flickered as the darkness crept in.

  Louis moved back to the ladder.

  “Heller!” he shouted.

  No answer.

  “Tyrone Heller!”

  The hatch opened and a face reappeared. “It’s Ty!” he screamed. “You going to talk to me, you call me Ty, you stupid motherfucking piece of shit!”

  Then he was gone. The hatch slammed shut. A click of a lock this time. The lights in the cabin went out.

  How far would he take him? How long would it take Wainwright to get the coast guard out here? How long did he have to stay alive?

  He moved back to the ladder.

  “Ty!” he shouted. “Stop the boat and we’ll talk.”

  No answer.

  Louis moved around the room. The cupboards were padlocked, the windows too thick to shatter. He tossed pads from the benches, finding only storage and life jackets underneath.

  Finally, as darkness engulfed the boat, he sat down, positioning himself in a corner, listening to the traffic on his radio. The coast guard had been notified. Wainwright was on his way to the wharf.

  Suddenly, the vibrations under his feet stopped.

  He stood up.

  He could hear footsteps above him, then saw Heller descend the outside ladder in the back. He had a portable battery-powered light in one hand and a bang stick in the other.

  Heller unlocked the door and slid it open. Water was streaming off the upper deck onto his rain cap.

  “You didn’t come the first time. Why?” Heller demanded.

  Louis kept his eyes on the bang stick in Heller’s right hand. He forced himself to speak calmly.

  “I didn’t get the message.”

  “You should have come! You ruined the plan! You should have come!”

  “What plan?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I changed it.” Heller set the light on a table just inside the door. “You came this time. Now I can finish the plan.”

  Louis raised his hand, backing up slowly. “No, you don’t have to,” he said. “You have a choice.”

  Heller’s face changed suddenly. “I never had a choice!” he screamed, waving the bang stick. “I never had a fucking choice!”

  Louis backed around a post, his heart hammering, his breath shallow. His eyes searched the floor for a weapon, a pole, anything.

  “Ty, they know we’re out here. They’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

  “I’m not going back!” Heller shouted. He turned, and then spun back, his face distorted. “You should know that! What’s wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you pretend you’re different?”

  Louis stared at him, trying to get a grip on his fear. He knew there were two people inside Heller, but he didn’t know which one he was talking to. But he needed to say something. Anything.

  “Different than who?” he asked.

  “Me!” Heller screamed. “Me!”

  Different? Jesus . . . he wasn’t different. He was as close to Heller as anyone could get. In age, in build, and in color.

  What did he say? What could he say to this man?

  “I’m not different than you,” Louis said loudly. “I understand you. I understand everything.”

  Heller shook his head violently, spraying water. “No one understands!” he screamed. “I have things I need to do! I have things inside me other people don’t have! And I can’t get rid of them. Do you hear me? I can’t get rid of them!”

  Heller’s voice had turned thick with rage.

  “That’s why I’m doing this. That’s why I’m taking the boat. He doesn’t want it anymore. He doesn’t want anything anymore.”

  “Including you?” Louis asked.

  Heller’s face tightened, the muscles stretched hard against the bone.

  “Stupid piece of shit . . . stupid piece of shit,” Heller said, repeating it over and over, as he walked toward him.

  “Heller, listen to me—”

  Heller stopped talking, his eyes drifting to the floor. His breathing slowed.

  “Heller . . .”

  Heller didn’t move for several seconds; then he lifted his eyes slowly. “You came to me. Do you hear me? You tell them, you came to me.”

  This was crazy. How was he going to tell anyone anything?

  “Ty . . .”

  Heller started shaking his head, coming closer. “Stop talking to me. You’re no
t supposed to talk.”

  Louis backed up again, only a couple of the benches separating them. Heller leveled the bang stick.

  Louis felt the wall against his back. His hands searched for something he could grab but there was nothing.

  The tip of the stick inched toward him. He thought about kicking up, trying to knock the bang stick out of Heller’s hand, but knew he would be too slow.

  His eyes flicked between the tip of the bang stick and Heller’s face, hoping he could see a sign—a flinch—something that would tell him when Heller was about to thrust the stick into him.

  Heller stepped closer. His eyes jumped down to Louis’s legs.

  Now!

  Louis threw out his hand just as Heller lunged. The tip smashed into the wall and exploded.

  The blast echoed against the metal, and Heller stumbled backward.

  Louis dove to the floor. He sucked in a breath. He was alive. And not hit.

  Heller was in the shadows, trying to reload the stick. Louis could hear him. “Shit . . . shit.”

  Louis felt along the cold floor until he found a fishing pole. He pulled it to him, easing himself into the darkness behind the post. He curled around it, coming up behind Heller as he was trying to shove another shell into the bang stick.

  Louis held the pole in the center, the huge metal reel hanging heavy on the far end. With both hands, he swung.

  The reel smashed into Heller’s cheek. Heller yelped and threw his hand to his face. He dropped the bang stick and the shell bounced out.

  Louis backtracked toward the open rear door. He would lock the son of a bitch in.

  Outside, water rushed off the top deck, pouring over him, and he couldn’t get a good grip on the metal door. He pulled harder, inching it along with each jerk.

  A knife shot out the narrow opening, ripping blindly at his arm, slicing into it. Louis jerked back, his hand over the wound, blood between his fingers.

  Heller shoved the door open.

  Louis staggered back. Candy—his gun. He had to get to it. He had no choice but to make a complete circle around the boat and pray Heller didn’t know what he was after.

  Louis ran to his right, slipping down the walkway, away from Heller.

  His arm throbbed, he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the rain. The gun . . . he needed to get around the boat to the other side.

  Something hit him hard from above, crashing into his shoulders, crushing him into the deck. Heller had jumped him from the top deck.

  Louis jerked up, gasping, pedaling backward, until he was pressed against the cabin wall.

  Heller came at him, knife raised.

  Nowhere to go. No time even to draw up his feet to push him away.

  Heller thrust the knife toward his chest.

  No choice! Grab it!

  Louis grabbed the blade. It sliced into his palm and he let out a yell, gritting his teeth against the pain. He gripped the blade tighter, fighting to angle it away from him. Heller tried to draw it back, wrench it away, but Louis held tight, blood streaming down his arm.

  Heller jerked to his right.

  Louis snapped the knife to the left. It broke off in his hand and Louis tossed it over the railing.

  For an instant, Heller stood there, his eyes riveted to the broken knife butt.

  Now!

  Louis hit him in the face. Heller fell sideways, the butt skittering across the deck.

  He hit him again, and again, but Heller was unfazed, coming back at him. Heller lunged forward, smashing his fists into Louis’s face. Slammed backward, Louis could get no leverage, draw no strength. He started grappling for Heller’s throat, anything to restrain him.

  Oh, Jesus. Jesus.

  Heller was pummeling him with blows to the face and head. Louis rolled to his side, shielding his face, inching away, pounded now by punches to his back.

  Fighting him off with his elbows and legs, Louis pulled himself up on the rail. The boat lurched and for just a moment the pounding stopped.

  A spool of fishing line was at his feet. Louis grabbed it and spun, swinging it upward. The heavy wooden spool crashed into Heller’s head. Heller fell against the cabin wall, then slipped to the deck, blood pouring down his face.

  Louis wiped the bloody water from his eyes.

  Lights! Flashing blue lights far off in the distance.

  Hold on . . . just five more minutes. Hold on!

  He staggered toward the back of the boat, holding his bleeding palm. He heard Heller behind him and he knew he would never make it around to Candy. He found the open door and fell inside, struggling to close it. It shut and he stumbled toward the rear of the cabin. He heard the door slam open and looked up to see Heller standing in the opening, the broken knife in his hand.

  The flashing blue lights were coming closer, swirling faintly in the cabin now. Heller swept a hand over the table and the battery-powered portable light crashed to the floor.

  Louis inched backward, his eyes on Heller. Heller moved slowly forward, his bloody face intent on Louis, his chest heaving, the broken knife in his hand.

  Back . . . back. There was no way out. Back . . . back. Blue lights swirling. And white now, the searchlight from the coast guard boat.

  His heel hit something and he fell, catching himself against a bench as he hit the floor.

  The bang stick.

  He snatched it up, thrusting it out lengthwise across his chest to ward off the knife butt’s blows. He could hear Wainwright’s voice calling to him on the radio from across the room.

  Heller inched forward. White light swept the room. Louis pressed back, squinting in the light, blinded each time it moved over the room. Each time he saw Heller’s bulky form above him, coming closer.

  God . . . they weren’t going to make it in time!

  Then he saw it. There in the beam thrown out by the portable light, he saw the shell.

  He grabbed it and pulled the open tip of the bang stick to him. He tried to jam the shell inside, but his fingers were stiff with blood. His hand was shaking, his eyes darting from the shell to Heller.

  Damn it! Damn it!

  The shell dropped in and he swung it around, pointing it at Heller.

  Heller stopped, the knife butt in the air. Louis could hear him panting.

  The white lights swept over them again.

  Louis got up slowly, using the wall for support, keeping the bang stick aimed at Heller’s chest.

  Heller took two more steps closer, drawing deep, raspy breaths.

  Jesus Christ! He wasn’t going to stop.

  Louis drew in the stick as far he could. Heller finally stopped. He looked down at the end of the stick, only inches from his heart, then back at Louis.

  Louis stared at him, holding the bang stick with trembling arms.

  Suddenly, it was clear. He had been right. Heller wanted to die. He had been trying to kill himself all along, trying to erase himself, and now he wanted Louis to do it for him.

  Heller moved, leaning into the stick.

  Louis jerked the bang stick downward and it exploded into Heller’s thigh.

  Heller went down with a groan, disappearing between the benches. Louis fell back against the steel wall, slumping to the floor, sucking in air. Heller lifted his head.

  Stay down! Stay down, you bastard!

  Heller grabbed his ankle, and Louis jerked away, bringing the bang stick down on Heller’s shoulders. He kept coming, clawing at Louis’s legs, unfazed by the pounding of the rod. Heller was on him, swinging blindly, spewing blood.

  Louis twisted sharply, and Heller rolled to his side, his shoulders caught for just a second under the bench. Louis yanked him back by his collar, then brought the bang stick across the front of his throat. He pulled back with every ounce of strength he had left.

  Heller started gagging, his fingers curling around the stick. Louis jerked again. Heller writhed against him.

  The white lights swept over the walls. The metal bar was thick with blood fro
m his hands. He could hear sirens and voices.

  Suddenly, Heller dropped his hands. His body went limp. “Finish it,” he gasped.

  Louis froze.

  Heller’s face snapped toward his. “Finish it!”

  You son of a bitch! I’m not going to do it for you!

  Louis shoved him away, slamming his head into a bench post. He grabbed Heller’s hair and slammed it again.

  Heller went limp.

  Louis struggled to his feet, panting. He saw a reel and stumbled to it, bringing it back to Heller. He jerked the line loose and wrapped it around Heller’s wrists and arms, pushing it through the legs of the bench and back again. Then yanked it tight, wedging the pole between the bench and the wall.

  The lights sprayed the cabin in white.

  He pulled himself to his feet, reeling toward the door.

  The coast guard boat was abreast the starboard side of the Miss Monica now. Somebody was yelling over a megaphone, somebody was calling his name. Louis ignored the voice and staggered around to the port-side gangway.

  He made his way to where Candy lay, dropping next to him on the deck. He rolled him over. Candy’s eyes were closed. His face looked like wet clay.

  Louis pressed a finger to his neck. He felt a weak pulse.

  He ripped open Candy’s raincoat. Blood was running from his belly down the deck. Louis pressed a hand to the wound, pulling Candy to him, using his body to shield him from the rain.

  Oh God, no . . . please. Not again.

  The white lights swept over them again.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Someone draped a blanket around his shoulders. He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the distant wharf. He could see it now, make it out through the rain. He could see the muted colors of the boats, the gray of the restaurant. He could see the blue bubble lights.

  They were waiting for him.

  The engines of the coast guard boat vibrated with power under his feet. He heard the door of the cabin slide open and footsteps come near.

  “We’re almost back.”

  Louis nodded.

  “Your friend, the other officer . . . what’s his name?”

  “Candy,” Louis said. “Greg Candy.”

  He could see yellow raincoats swarming the docks now. He got up slowly, wincing in pain, holding the blanket around him as best he could with his bandaged hands. Slowly, he went over to the stretcher.