The First 48

by Tim Green

  She jumped as Dave reared back and thrashed him again.

  Just what Dave was saying, she couldn’t make out in the wind. But she could detect the growl of his voice and the curses. She knew that Dave was going to kill him.

  Jane looked behind her at the dark swells of water as they crested and licked at the underside of the boat. She took a deep breath and plunged in. Shocked by the water, she burst to the surface and sputtered, treading hard to keep her head above the swells. She got her bearings by the light of the fire, swam through the piers of the dock, and angled in toward the shore.

  When she was nearly upon the crashing surf, she tested the bottom with her feet. She was in no more than four feet of water, so she stood and swept the water past her, keeping her eyes on the cabin. In the flicker of the fire, the black whip licked away, but Mark was no longer crying out. Jane dug her hands into the water. A wave sent her forward and down, spinning her. Another smacked her directly, filling her mouth. She sputtered but turned and continued to drive for the shore, scrabbling now with her hands as well as her feet, buffeted by the roaring waves.

  When she got to the thin rock beach, she climbed immediately up and over the bank. In the dark shadows of the trees, she stumbled uphill and toward the back of Dave’s cabin. The wet clothes hung dripping from her. When she could no longer see the fire, she came out of the woods and ran along the grass toward the bunkhouse. There was no time for caution and she burst right in, her heart thumping hard.

  In the kitchen, she found a knife. By the stove was a box of matches. She grabbed those and a newspaper off the counter, then flipped on each of the four burners atop the stove. The windows were open and Jane closed them tight, along with the back door. She shut the doors along the hallway that led from the kitchen to the main room, where there was a fireplace. Jane pushed some wooden chairs into a jumble up against the wall. She crumpled the papers and lay them in a heap under the chairs. Then she took some split kindling from a bucket beside the fireplace and laid it atop the papers.

  She moved halfway back down the hall and sniffed. No gas yet. When she returned to the great room, she struck a match and lit the papers, then bolted out the door. She shut it tight and didn’t stop to look back until she’d reached the gravel of the main drive. Through a small window, she could clearly see the flicker of orange light. She blew out a quick breath and turned away. Skirting along the edge of the drive, she came to the opening where Dave’s cabin looked out over the water. She pressed herself against the rough-hewn siding on the back of the cabin, clinging to its coarse surface, making herself small. Smelling tar and wood, she rounded the rectangular cabin slowly. The kitchen knife from the bunkhouse was gripped tightly in her fist.

  CHAPTER 54

  Tom aimed his .38 with both hands to steady the trembling. He stalked the length of the table with the man’s head in his sights.

  The man clucked his tongue.

  “A gun?” he said, raising just one silver eyebrow. “I’ve had guests hunt deer with pistols but the season’s closed.”

  “I’m Jane Redmon’s father,” Tom said. “I want her back.”

  Both eyebrows went up this time.

  “Her father?” he said. “It seems my ward has been impertinent again.”

  “Your ward?”

  “I’m Carson Kale. This isn’t the first time Mark has brought a young lady to our island for a romantic . . . getaway,” the man said. “But it is the first time a father has shown up with a firearm.”

  Tom felt his stomach turn.

  “She’s . . . missing,” Tom said. He felt the vigor draining away from him. His arms drooped to his sides, the gun now limp in his grip.

  Carson’s eyebrows stayed up. He pulled down the corners of his mouth and shook his head gently from side to side.

  “Not . . . really, I don’t think, Mr. Redmon. I think she’s fine. She’s with Mark, so they could be anywhere on the island, but she’s fine. There are several waterfront cabins. Dave will know. He’s the caretaker, and he should be back soon. Why don’t you sit down.”

  “We found a shirt of hers in Mark Allen’s apartment,” Mike said, stepping forward, fists clenched. “It had blood on it.”

  Tom nodded and raised his gun.

  Carson’s frown deepened.

  “Maybe it was Mark’s,” he said with a shrug. “He’s always been prone to nosebleeds, but I can assure you that she’s fine. Dave will help you. Really. Please, that gun is absurd.”

  “Absurd.” Tom had heard that word before. Whispered behind his back as he walked through the courthouse halls. “Fool.” He’d heard that as well, and now he felt it all coming down on top of him. He had been something once. Had fought for good. Now . . . How had Jane put it? Fighting noisy battles against giants who swatted him down like a gnat?

  Maybe it was the exhaustion, finally taking hold. Maybe it was making an ass out of himself at Friendly’s. Maybe it was the epiphany of what his life had really become. Tom let the gun drop to his side. He sat down and put his face in his free hand. His shoulders started to shake.

  “Please,” Carson said. “Would you like some coffee? My help have just gone home for the night or I could offer you something more . . .”

  Without taking his face from his hand, Tom nodded that he would.

  “Yes,” Carson said, pouring a cup of steaming coffee and placing it on a saucer before pushing it across the corner of the table, “and a napoleon?”

  The creamy layered pastries, perfect rectangles of yellow and brown, sat in an orderly row on a gleaming salver. Carson already had one in front of him. Its corner was gone and flaky crumbs littered the plate.

  “No,” Tom said shaking his head, trying to hold it upright like a man. He heaved a sigh.

  “And your friend?”

  “All right,” Mike said.

  Mike sat down, and Tom felt his friend’s hand pat his shoulder.

  “It’s okay, Tom,” Mike said quietly, gripping him. “She was in real danger. We didn’t know. We did the right thing.”

  Carson slid the napoleon and a silver fork across the corner of the table on a small plate. Mike overloaded his fork and took a quiet bite.

  Carson sipped his coffee and sighed.

  “Well,” he said, “if there’s nothing else I can get you, I’ll go and see if I can raise either Dave or Mark himself, although part of the reason he comes here is to get away from everything . . .”

  Carson rose from the table and dabbed at the corners of his smiling lips.

  “Jesus,” Tom said when Carson had disappeared through a small open doorway adjacent to the fireplace. He felt like he was coming unraveled. “Just that she’s all right . . . my God, Mike . . .”

  “Yes,” Mike said absently. He shoveled the last bite of pastry into his mouth and got up from the table.

  “I’m an ass,” Tom said. “Jesus, and Gleason . . .”

  Tom stared at the flames. Ellen.

  “Don’t, Tom. You’re strong. Be strong.”

  Tom took one of his lips gently between his teeth. He felt for his wedding ring. Its smoothness.

  “I will,” he said to her silently.

  Mike peeked around the corner of the doorway where Carson had disappeared.

  “Mike?” Tom said from his seat at the table. He got up and followed his friend around the corner. A narrow stairway rose halfway up the wall before doubling back.

  Mike was standing at the foot of the stairs, his finger pressed to his lips. Tom heard voices from above. They flared to an angry pitch. Tom pointed up the stairway. He moved past Mike and motioned for him to follow.

  CHAPTER 55

  Know what he called you?” Dave asked. Sweat shining on his brow. Breathing heavily.

  Mark tried to talk. He would do anything to stop the whipping. A croak came out.

  “What?”

  “A failed experiment,” Dave said. “Like a bad feint in a war game. A failed maneuver. A disaster. That’s you, and now I’m going to str
ip your back to the bone.”

  The black hose whistled through the air and thrashed him again. Mark grimaced and ground down on his teeth.

  “Everything is over, you weak little fuck,” Dave said. “That’s all you ever were. Poor orphan boy. I wasn’t fooled. An officer’s commission—”

  Dave spat.

  “Fuck that. You were a spoiled little pretender. Weak like a woman . . .”

  Thrash.

  “Now cry like a bitch. Cry like that girl’s gonna cry when I give it to her . . .”

  Thrash.

  Just as Mark opened his eyes, a blue ball of flame flashed brilliantly behind and above the trees. The concussion of the explosion jarred him.

  “What?” Dave said, staggering two steps forward and dropping the whip. He scooped up the shotgun leaning against the tree and started jogging toward the bunkhouse. Orange flames now showed through the trees and danced in the night sky. A cascade of sparks spilled up into the wind.

  Mark jumped when he felt someone touch him from behind.

  “It’s me,” Jane said, her voice urgent. Frightened.

  “Quick,” he said. “There’s a rope tied off to that cleat . . . Yes, that’s it. Untie it.”

  Jane bent over the trunk of the tree, her elbows moving spasmodically in the firelight. Mark suddenly dropped to the ground. His legs buckled. He fell sideways and struggled to right himself.

  “Here,” she said. She was beside him, cutting away at the bonds on his wrists. The rope snapped free and Mark pushed himself upright, fighting to regain his feet.

  “Did you do that?”

  “I turned on the gas stove and I lit a fire in the other room,” she said, cutting the bonds around his ankles.

  “I knew I liked you for a reason,” he said, smiling.

  He was stumbling now toward the Land Cruiser. There was his shotgun lying in the grass. He scooped it up and fumbled with the box of shells in his pocket. Blood trickled down his back. His eyes worked between the weapon and the driveway, which was backlit by the burning bunkhouse. Flames now swept upward in massive sheets, fueled by the dry wood and the strong wind.

  The fifth shell slipped into the gun with a final click.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  “No, I’m going with you.”

  “He has a gun. You stay, goddamn it. Right here.”

  “I don’t need protection,” she said. “You do.”

  “I have a gun too.”

  Jane nodded. “Point taken.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He limped up the drive toward the fire, keeping under the dark shadows of the trees. He saw a big shadow moving up ahead and dropped to the ground. It was Dave, slogging slowly down the drive, glancing back at the fire at every other step. Mark steadied his elbows in the gravel, wiggling them in. His back burned with pain. He looked through the aim-point sight and put the tiny red dot in the center of Dave’s massive chest. He took a deep breath, settled himself, then fired.

  Dave sprang into the trees on the other side of the road.

  The sound of twigs snapping and branches breaking could be heard even over the roar of fire and wind. There was a scuffle of leaves, and then nothing. Mark held his breath, straining for a sound. He knew Dave’s skill. It would take the big man less than a minute to silently outflank Mark and open fire from a superior position.

  Mark rolled off the road and into the shallow ditch. He crawled up the slope, his bare belly scuffing the damp ground, stopping only when he believed he’d reached the spot where Dave was when he’d fired. He peeked over the lip of the ditch and listened, scanning up and down the dark woods that lined the drive. He tried to see not with his direct vision but with his peripheral vision, which he knew was twice as effective at seeing in the dark.

  The treetops swayed in the wind, but down below, nothing moved.

  CHAPTER 56

  Slowly, Mark army-crawled up onto the drive. In the firelight, he saw a dark splash of something. He put his tongue to a stone in the patch. Blood.

  He crawled farther. There was another splotch. Farther. More. He was up on his knees now. The patches were growing in size. He leveled his gun in front of him and backed slowly down the driveway.

  Jane ran up to him. She grasped his naked shoulders.

  “What happened?”

  “I shot him.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “I don’t know how bad. Run back to the Land Cruiser. There’ll be a flashlight in the console between the front seats.”

  Jane disappeared, then returned, scuffing up fountains of gravel as she did. Mark kept his eyes on the drive.

  “Thanks,” he said, flicking on the flashlight. “When we get back to D.C., dinner is on me.”

  She smiled. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

  He swept the woods as he moved up the hill, shotgun ready. When he reached the blood, he heard Jane suck in a breath. The splotches were deep red. Rich and shiny. He followed the trail into the woods. The patches of blood were growing, creamy red pools caught in the bellies of dead leaves.

  Mark swung the beam through the trees, scanning the forest floor. Up ahead lay the dark mound of a body.

  “Hold this,” Mark said, handing the light to Jane. “Point it there. No, over there. That’s right.”

  “What are you—”

  Her words were cut short by the blast of the shotgun. Jane shrieked and the light stabbed up into the treetops.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Fool me once, shame on you,” he said. “Fool me twice . . .”

  He took the flashlight from Jane and started to walk. As it turned out, the second shot to the head was unnecessary. The one on the road had struck Dave in the center of his chest. Jane looked away. Mark knelt down beside the body and, using his handkerchief, yanked the pearl-handled pistol from Dave’s belt.

  “Come on,” he said, sticking the gun, handkerchief and all, into the waist of his pants. He took Jane by the hand and led her back toward the driveway.

  The bunkhouse flames were already diminishing; the fire in front of Dave’s was waning as well. Mark led her up onto the porch and in through the front door. Warm amber light from a small table lamp filled the front room, along with the apple-tinted scent of pipe tobacco. Mark sat her down in a mission oak chair with thick leather cushions and a velour pillow.

  “Do you need something?” he asked. “I’ll get you some water.”

  He started for the kitchen.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Your back.”

  Jane got up out of the chair and started toward him.

  “No,” he said, raising his hand. “Don’t. It’s all right. Sit. Please.”

  He turned and went quickly into the kitchen, removing a bottle of water and grabbing a box of wheat crackers from the countertop.

  “What are we doing?” Jane asked as he handed them to her.

  “You’re staying right here,” he said. He ducked into a bedroom and pulled a thick flannel shirt off a hanger. The metal rang against the bar as Mark slipped it gingerly over his shoulders. As he buttoned it, he returned to the great room.

  “You can’t come with me now,” he said. “I have to do something. Two things. I . . . I think Dave already killed Carson . . .

  “I’ve got to go back to the main house, and I don’t want you to see that. Then I have something else I have to do . . . ,” he said, kneeling down in front of her. “It will make everything all right. I’ll be back soon. You have to trust me.”

  He picked up his shotgun off the coffee table and slipped two more shells into it. He handed it to her.

  “I don’t know where Vern is,” he said. “Probably not around. Just an old guy anyway. The cook. But in case.”

  He kissed her on the lips, his fingers slipping beneath her hair, touching her neck. Then he backed away from her and opened the door.

  “I’m locking it. See?” he said. “I’ll be back.”
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  “You better call out before you come through that door,” she said, bringing the gun up to her shoulder and sighting it in.

  “I’ll remember,” Mark said. “You’ll be okay.”

  “It’s you I’m worried about,” she said, lowering the gun.

  Mark smiled at her, then slipped out into the night.

  CHAPTER 57

  Tom pressed his finger against his lips. Mike nodded. It was silent except for the complaining of the stairs under their weight. When he reached the top, Tom drew aim with his .38, one by one, at the suits of armor, almost expecting them to move. The long hallway was lined with carved wooden doors, each with a snarling gargoyle for its handle. Behind the landing was a double set of glass-inlaid doors that apparently gave access to the battlement. The first door on the left was where Tom stopped.

  He could hear talking from within. It turned to shouts. Mike pressed his ear right up to the cold metal of the keyhole.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Tom said.

  “Trying to hear,” Mike said. He put his finger to his lips and angled his head. Tom pressed his own ear to the door, but without crouching down.

  “Dave came for me,” a voice said.

  “The man does his job.” It was Carson.

  “He tried to fillet me like a deer.”

  “You’re insane,” Carson said.

  “I want no part of you anymore.”

  “Breeding,” Carson said.

  “What?”

  “When one breeds a mongrel to a mongrel they get trash,” he said. “Even with my training, you’re a mutt. Just like that slut you called your—”

  Tom jumped back away from the door at the sound of the gunshot, his ear ringing. Mike had staggered back as well. They aimed their guns.

  Mike tried the door, quietly at first, and then rattling the gargoyle’s head noisily.

  “Back,” Tom said.

  Mike stepped aside. Tom took two steps and kicked the door.

  “Ow! Shit!” Tom yelled, holding his knee. The door hadn’t budged.