Blood in the Water

by Jack Flynn

  The door opened, and Cookie felt the sharp bite of the winter air rushing at him from the entryway. He looked up from his musings. There were six of them, and they weren’t regulars. From the look of them, Cookie was pretty sure they weren’t even customers. They moved in silently, spreading out in formation. One of them headed to the far corner of the bar, one moved to the hallway that led to the toilets and the stairway to the upper floor, two stayed at the front door, and another headed to the hallway that led to the back door. The last of them just stood in the center of the bar, looking at Cookie. He was Southeast Asian, short and slight with a crew cut and tattoos covering his neck. He dominated the room without moving or speaking, standing expressionless, his cold eyes studying Cookie the way a Komodo dragon might. Cookie looked back at him without saying anything for a moment. This was bad, he knew instantly.

  ‘Bar’s closed,’ he said evenly. His hand went underneath the bar and took hold of the handle of the wooden club.

  ‘We are not here to drink,’ the Southeast Asian man said in a thick accent, moving forward.

  ‘We don’t have a kitchen.’

  At this the man gave a slight smirk. ‘We are not hungry.’

  ‘What can I do for you, then?’ Cookie had put the fat stacks of cash from Jimmy in the safe earlier in the evening, so he knew that was protected. He glanced over at the money pouch by the register. He’d just tallied it, so he knew there was just over seven hundred dollars in it, a mediocre haul for a Thursday night, and certainly not enough to get hurt over. Still, there was the principle of the matter, and Cookie was not ready to give up the cash without at least a brief fight. In the end, he knew that they would get the money, and he would probably take a beating, but beatings were just a part of life. His fingers tightened on the club.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  Cormack was still upstairs in the office, and he generally carried a gun. It might be helpful to involve him, although from the look of the intruders Cookie found it hard to believe that some of them weren’t armed, and if this turned into a gunfight the odds of Cookie walking away from the situation alive would go down significantly. ‘Yeah, I’m alone,’ he said.

  The man shook his head. ‘No, you are not.’

  Cookie frowned. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Cookie looked around the room and saw that none of the men was looking at the register or the cash sitting next to it. They were shifting around, watching the corners, keeping an eye on the hallway. The realization swept Cookie away like a rip tide.

  ‘Cormack, get out!’ he called at the top of his lungs.

  All at once the room was in movement. The man in the corner closest to the bar rushed Cookie and was behind the bar faster than he would have thought possible. Cookie swung out with the heavy club. The man ducked and the blow glanced off his shoulder. The weight of the club and the force of the blow clearly took him by surprise, though, and he stumbled and lost his balance for a moment. That was all the time that Cookie needed, and he followed with two quick, expertly placed swings to the back of the man’s head. Cookie saw the scalp split and the skull give in. The sound was sickening.

  Cookie turned just in time to see another man coming over the bar at him. He raised his club, but the man was able to grab his arm before he could generate any momentum. A third man was on him now, pummeling him as they dragged him out from behind the bar.

  ‘Get out! Cormack, get out!’ Cookie shouted again. As he got the words out he was kicked in the stomach, and the air left his body. He choked and gasped as he was held by the shoulders. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. He was looking into the face of the Asian man, who was still standing in the center of the room.

  ‘Where is he?’ the man asked.

  Cookie opened his mouth, but the wind was still knocked out of him, and all he could do was gulp for air. The man reached behind his back and pulled out a curved shoreman’s knife, held it to Cookie’s throat.

  ‘I said, where is he?’

  ‘G-gone,’ Cookie choked out.

  The Asian man shook his head. ‘No, not gone. Otherwise you would not call to him.’

  ‘He was in the back,’ Cookie gasped. ‘He would have made it out already.’ Cookie nodded toward the hallway that led to the back door. The man’s gaze followed the nod, then he shook his head.

  ‘I have more men outside. We would have seen him. Where is he?’ He pushed the knife hard enough into Cookie’s throat that the bartender could feel blood running down his neck.

  ‘He’s—’

  As Cookie began to speak, a shot rang out from the hallway back toward the bathrooms. The man standing in the hallway’s entrance crumpled, his face disintegrating into meaty strings of blood and tissue, blown apart by a shot to the center of the back of his head.

  That left four live intruders inside the bar. Two were holding Cookie up, one was holding a knife to his throat, and the other was now moving across the bar from the spot by the back door. The two men holding Cookie dropped him and he hit the floor hard. They pulled guns and started firing toward the stairs that led up to the office. Cookie was still doubled over from the beating he’d taken, but he started to get to his feet to add to the fight. As he did, though, he was grabbed from behind by the throat. He felt a knife pushed into his side, through the skin and just far enough to reach into his ribcage. He screamed out and his knees buckled, but he was caught and held on his feet by the man holding the knife inside him. Cookie was amazed at how strong the small Asian was.

  ‘Do not struggle,’ the man said to Cookie. ‘Or I will push the knife into your heart and you will die.’

  Cookie screamed out in pain again, but fought to stay still.

  ‘Move,’ the man said, and he and the other three headed for the staircase. The Asian stood behind Cookie, using him as a shield. ‘Cormack O’Connell!’ he called up the stairs. With his accent it came out garbled, but Cookie had no doubt what he was saying. ‘I have your friend! I will kill him if you do not come down.’ Cookie had a good sense that the man was going to kill him in any event, but he wasn’t in a very good position to say anything. ‘Come down, we can talk!’

  The door at the top of the stairs swung open and the three men at the bottom of the stairs raised their guns, looking for something to shoot at. They moved in closer, their eyes straining. The Asian man kept Cookie in front of him.

  Shots rang out again from the top of the stairs, and one of the three men went down. The other two started firing blindly, but there was still no visible human target. Another shot fired down, and one of the remaining men was hit. He stumbled back against the hallway’s threshold, dropping his gun. Cookie thought it was a minor gunshot wound to the shoulder, but after a moment the man began grasping at his chest, his eyes going wild, and he began to choke. A mouthful of blood came up and landed with a loud splat near the Cookie’s foot. The wounded man started reeling, his arms pinwheeling as he lurched out toward the bar, as though he’d be all right if he could make it out of the building. He managed only a few brief steps before he lost his balance and started to fall. His arms reached out, trying to grasp anything to keep upright. He hit a barstool and fell hard, his hand colliding with the top of the bar as he tried in vain to steady himself. His hand knocked against one of the creosote candles, turning it over.

  Cookie had not finished cleaning, and there must have been some alcohol on the bar’s surface because the flame from the candle spread quickly across the top. The fire gathered and grew and advanced along the bar with alarming speed.

  The Asian kept his knife in Cookie’s ribs, crouching down, still using him as a shield. Cookie sensed some hesitation in his tormenter as he looked up at the top of the stairs. And then the indecision was gone. ‘We go!’ he shouted to the last man remaining. ‘You die here, O’Connell!’ he screamed at the empty landing at the top of the staircase.

  Cookie could feel the heat from the fire as it spread from the bar to the stools to t
he floor. The place was old and wooden, and probably hadn’t been through a legitimate inspection in more than a decade. It was clear that the entire building would be engulfed within a matter of minutes. Cookie felt a pang of guilt as he realized that the place would be destroyed on his watch. He wondered whether he would be able to live with that.

  His concerns were brief, though. Once the Asian reached a spot beyond the hallway threshold where there was little risk that a shot from upstairs could reach him, he drove the knife hard all the way into Cookie’s torso.

  Cookie felt the warmth through his entire body. He was surprised that there was no pain. He’d been in agony when the knife was only an inch or so inside his chest, but when it penetrated his lungs and took the breath from him, he went numb. He couldn’t tell whether he was breathing anymore, and he suspected that meant he no longer was. His head was swimming, and he felt his knees buckle. The Asian was yelling something, but Cookie could no longer make out the words. He was caught by the irony that he was a man who had spent much of his life on the sea, and now here he was, on dry land, drowning in his own blood.

  The world tilted on its side, and a great wave swallowed all sound. Behind him Cookie could see the flicker of the fire as it spread, and it felt as though it would engulf him. He knew it wouldn’t, though, at least not while he was alive.

  He wouldn’t last that long.

  Twelve

  Cormack stood at the top of the stairs, looking down as the fire lapped at the railing. This was not good. He would have much preferred to face the guns than the fire. Guns were man-made, and somehow he’d always had the sense that anything created by mankind could be defeated. Fire, though, was sent by God, and when God wanted to take you … well, things were pretty much out of your hands then.

  He moved slowly down the stairs, testing his resolve against the flames, gauging whether he might be able to run through them. It was no use, though, he realized quickly. It was thirty feet from the bottom of the stairs to the outside door, and the entire span was an inferno now. Even if he were able to make it, he was sure Soh would be outside with guns pointed at the door.

  He knew it was Soh. He recognized the voice calling to him from downstairs. He’d been expecting a move by the young man. Soh had been chafing under O’Connell’s restraint for months, looking to expand his smuggling operations in the harbor. Cormack had explained the way things had to work, but young men never see the wisdom in moderation. And so it was not a total surprise that Soh was looking to free himself from Cormack’s bridle. But Cormack had not been expecting such a dramatic statement of Soh’s resolve.

  Cormack moved back up the stairs, to the second floor. The roar of the fire was growing, and he knew the building would not last long. He ran down the narrow hallway, toward his office. There was a short span of roof over the first floor just outside the office window. It would be about a fifteen-foot jump from there to the pier, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. His legs had lost some of their spring in their fifth decade, and he was certain to break a bone. There was also still the danger that Soh would be waiting for him. At this point, though, he had few options.

  He pushed the window up and stepped out onto the tar and asphalt shingles. They were slick with ice that had already started to melt from the heat of the fire, and he had to steady himself to keep from sliding off. Slowly he moved his way toward the edge of the roof, craning his neck to see how far a fall he had in store. As he did, a shot rang out and the clapboard behind him exploded. He whirled around, ducking and aiming his gun reflexively toward the shot. He fired twice and heard yelling on the pier. Glancing down, he saw three men now, and they were all taking aim. Cormack looked back up at the office window and considered climbing back inside, but the flames had already reached the second floor and were licking the sash, reaching out toward him. The roof ledge he was on was warm, and the building groaned. It occurred to him that he was at risk of falling through into the flames at any moment.

  He was lost in indecision when the gunfire started in earnest. The three men on the pier were all firing at once, and the side of the building behind him was splintered as the cacophony of the gunfire competed with the angry growl of the fire to split Cormack’s eardrums.

  He was moving before he even realized it, running toward the side of the building that hung out over the water. The gunfire followed him, and he felt something rip into his left calf. The pain was sharp and clean, but his adrenaline was flowing and it didn’t slow him down.

  He hit the far edge of the narrow roof and hurled himself headfirst off the building. His arms whirled and spun and he lost his grip on his gun. The roof was fifteen feet above the pier, and the pier was at least another ten feet above the water, so the fall seemed endless. It was dark out, but the fire had fully overtaken the building, casting a bright orange reflection on the black water so that he could see it rushing up toward him.

  At the last moment, he put his arms out, pointing his fingers to break the water. Nevertheless, he hit hard, the flat water driving into his chest, punching the air from his lungs. Great chunks of ice carved into his face, slicing the skin, the saltwater invading the wounds. For a moment he thought he was dead. He’d contemplated Hell before, but his imagination had never conceived of any torment as cruel as the one he was experiencing. The water was so cold it burned through him, and his deflated lungs refused to expand. That may have saved him – if he’d been able to inhale immediately, his lungs would have filled with water, and he likely would have succumbed.

  He fought to keep his wits and gain his bearings. The blaze spilling out from the Mariner lit up the surface of the water above him, and as he looked up and started to push himself toward the light, the water was pierced by a rapid succession of gunshots. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced his body along parallel to the surface, toward the giant wooden pilings that supported the pier. Only once he was able to touch one did he allow his body to float to the surface.

  When his head cleared the water, the new pain made the previous few moments seem like paradise. He opened his mouth and the air rushed in, icy and biting, and his ribs shrieked as his chest expanded. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick – he probably would have been, but he forced himself to keep quiet, knowing that Soh and his men were still in the area, looking for him.

  He was frozen through, and he wondered how long he could survive in the water. Not more than another few minutes, he estimated. He’d already lost feeling in his hands and feet, and he clung to the piling using his arms like giant fingerless chopsticks. Soon he would lose the feeling all the way to his shoulders. When that happened, he would lose his grip and slip back under the surface. And yet he was not anxious to face Soh’s men.

  The fire was almost directly above him, and he wondered whether it would spread from the building to the pier itself. If that happened, there would really be no saving him. Perhaps, he thought, it would be better to give up now and slip away beneath the water. He suddenly felt more tired than he ever had in his entire life. It was, he knew, a sign of extreme hypothermia, and yet somehow he didn’t really care.

  Just then he heard the sirens. They started like a distant, high-pitched moan from a forlorn animal, and grew quickly to a long, sustained shriek. They shook him back toward consciousness, and he forced himself to focus. He had very little time, he knew, and probably only one chance for survival. He could hear the firemen and police above him hollering to each other as they started to work to control the blaze. He let go of the piling and willed his leaden arms and legs to push him out away from the pier, where he might be seen. Then, with what little energy he had left, he filled his lungs with the frigid air, ignoring the pain, and called for help as loud as he could.

  He could see firemen running along the pier, and one was close to the edge. When Cormack yelled, the fireman’s head came up and he looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise. He was looking up at the building though, logically assuming that someone was trapped. C
ormack summoned the last of his energy and took another breath.

  ‘Help! In the water!’

  This time the fireman turned toward the right way, and after a moment Cormack could see him raise his arm and point directly at him. ‘Man in the water!’ the fireman called out to others. ‘Get a rescue team!’

  Cormack felt some relief, but knew he was far from safety. He was rapidly losing the ability to move any of his extremities. He was only barely keeping his head above the water, and that battle was about to be lost. His head slipped under for a moment, and he caught a mouthful of water. Thrusting his useless arms down, he managed to get his lips to the surface and take one last breath. Then he was gone. The world faded through a liquid lens, and the harbor that had fed him and clothed him and provided his livelihood took him.

  Thirteen

  Friday 1 February

  Kit remembered everything about that awful day, years before.

  It was the day of her last law school exam. Her life was full of love and hope and promise. She’d done well at Harvard, and she was proud of that. Maybe too proud, but after all, how many people could be a good mother to a five-year-old boy and still manage to make excellent marks at one of the most prestigious institutions in the world? She couldn’t have done it without Dillon, her husband and partner in everything that mattered. He was a school teacher in Everett, the town north of Boston along the Mystic River, where they lived.

  They were looking forward to the summer. She would have to study for the bar exam, but after that they would have six weeks when both she and Dillon were off. She would start work at one of the largest law firms in Boston in September at a salary she’d never even contemplated, but before that she and Dillon could spend time with each other – and with Ollie.