by Ace Atkins
“Not tonight.”
Carly nodded.
We found a series of steps made of stone and coral with a terrace every ten feet or so, landscaped with neat rows of blooming flowers and tropical plants and what appeared to be Roman statues.
We made it down three terraces before we heard footsteps and heavy breathing. I lifted the Browning and pointed it over the hedgerows. Hawk and Godfrey broke through the brush, both out of breath, Godfrey placing his hands on his thighs like a sprinter after a long race.
“How many?” I said.
“Three guards,” Godfrey said.
“And the others?”
“Left two in the dirt,” Hawk said.
“Ruger?” I said.
Hawk shook his head. Godfrey looked at his watch and motioned us away from the garden terrace and down onto the next series of steps. Only three more minutes and we’d hop on board and head straight for Cat Island.
We let the girls go first down to the pier. I motioned for Godfrey and Hawk to follow while I covered them.
At the top of the stone steps near the big house, a man in dark clothing appeared.
I fired at him. He disappeared as someone shot back.
I moved downward from rocky terrace to rocky terrace, off the steps, cutting my face and arms on the broken vines and limbs until I reached the landing. Hawk was speaking French to the blond girls. They seemed to understand him.
“Rex?” I said.
“He’ll be here,” Godfrey said.
Thirty seconds. All I saw was blackness and more rain beyond the dock.
Rain dripped over Godfrey’s lean black face and twisted down his graying beard. Bright lights clicked on all over the island while a high-pitched alarm pulsed from up the hill. He looked to Hawk and nodded.
Godfrey moved toward the staircase and started shooting. Hawk and the girls ran out onto the pier.
“Go,” Godfrey said.
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
I ran. Godfrey fired more.
We waited. We waited more. A minute passed.
No Rex. No Godfrey.
The shooting had stopped, and all I could hear was the creaking of the dock and the strong wind coming off the ocean. A moment later, Hawk lifted his chin at the Roman steps.
A muscled guard marched Godfrey down to the edge of the pier. He had his gun against the back of Godfrey’s head.
The sea churned and lashed at the edge of the pier. Rex wasn’t coming.
“You told me everything is better in the Bahamas?” I said.
“It is,” Hawk said, raising his massive gun fast, and shot the guard.
The guard caught the large round in the chest and fell onto a heap. I heard another shot, and Godfrey tumbled down into the sand like a marionette with cut strings.
I pulled the girls down to the pier and shielded them with my body.
Out of the darkness, Ruger appeared and stepped over Godfrey, picking up his gun.
Two more men followed down from the terraced gardens. I recognized the black guard as one of the men who tried to snatch Mattie in Southie.
Everyone had guns trained on me and Hawk. The girls were facedown and crying on the wet dock. It wasn’t a pretty situation.
“Spenser,” Ruger said. “Time to talk.”
58
After dragging off Godfrey and the girls, Ruger and the two men from Cerberus marched us up to the main house. The blue dome shone bright in the dark, all the windows glowing as if the house were a large glass lantern. It was frigid when we were brought inside to stand under the mosaic blue dome. Ruger held the gun on me, still and lifeless. Not even seeming to blink once.
Steiner sat nearby in a high-back bamboo chair, smoking a cigar. He had a white terry-cloth robe, open and exposing his body and the aforementioned banana hammock.
“Do you mind covering up,” I said. “There’s only so much I can take.”
Steiner grinned, lashing his robe closed as Poppy Palmer walked in through the kitchen. She had on a similar robe, cut short to show off her thick, muscular legs. Her black hair wet and spiky like an eighties rock star’s. As she wandered in, her finger traced the edge of a mahogany bar.
Poppy sang to herself and poured herself a big drink from a crystal decanter.
She took a sip and then poured out two more into crystal glasses. She handed one to me and tried to hand one to Hawk. “Warms the heart, doll,” she said.
Hawk just stared down at her. He was shirtless, having used his shirt to tie a tourniquet around Godfrey’s leg.
Poppy held the drink and ran a hand over his bare pecs and raked his abs with her long nails.
“We could’ve had some fun,” she said.
“Rather fuck a bucktoothed goat,” Hawk said.
Poppy stopped smiling. The black man from Miami stood at her back, the other guard stood tall and alert beside Steiner. I was within five feet of them. If I could get to Ruger, Hawk could perhaps jump the other two. We might get shot in the process, but at least there was hope.
Ruger stared at me as he held a gun toward my mid-section. It was a simple, slick .22 with a suppressor at the end. He could kill me and Hawk with less sound than clicking his tongue.
His gray eyes didn’t move. Gray shirt under a soaked gray linen suit jacket. His skin looked like a corpse.
“A man without honor is worse than dead,” I said.
“Cervantes.”
“You’re soulless,” I said. “But literate.”
Ruger shrugged. He tilted his head, staring at me. He appeared to be looking forward to me shuffling off this mortal coil.
I took the drink Poppy had poured us. Cognac. Only the best for Spenser before he gets shot. I tried to control my breathing. I was wet. I was tired. I was nauseated and concerned. I wasn’t thrilled with how the night was going.
“What about the girls?” I said.
“There will always be more girls,” Steiner said, his voice raspy and worn. His face lean and tan with white stubble. “Like there will always be more champagne and parties. As long as you have money and friends, you make your own rules.”
“The police and Feds might feel different.”
“They’ve tried before,” he said. “And they’ll try again. But how many cops do you know who are both stupid and corrupt?”
“Not these,” I said. “Think of me when you drop the soap in jail.”
“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Heard them boys already lining up to take a shot at your narrow white ass. Man into kids get that special treatment.”
Poppy wandered over to a very long leather couch. She sat on the arm, leaning back with her robe open, nearly exposing her breasts. She smiled at me and pulled on her cognac. Her eyes sleepy and relaxed as Steiner took a seat beside her. Steiner took Poppy’s glass and took a sip, licking his lips and turning to Ruger.
“Take them outside and shoot them,” Steiner said. “Weigh down the bodies and have them dropped off on the reef. The one with all the sharks.”
“Damn,” Hawk said. “This motherfucker thinks of everything.”
I set down the glass. I looked Ruger right in the eye. I’d been thinking of him since I’d heard he was back in Boston. I remembered every second of the bridge, him walking to me in the snow, a hatted shadow raising a gun and firing three rounds. It would be like that, only without the comfort of an icy river to catch me.
I looked to Hawk. Hawk’s whole body coiled, like a jaguar.
I waited for him to jump on the guards while I’d launch myself at Ruger. I suddenly felt like Butch and Sundance racing out to face the Bolivian Army. I swallowed and inhaled a deep breath through my nose.
Hawk nodded. I took a small step forward.
Ruger lifted his gun at me. A twinkle in his eye and a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. I waited
and held my breath.
Ruger pivoted in a blur and shot Peter Steiner in the forehead.
Poppy Palmer screamed and rolled from the couch as Ruger immediately shot the other two guards. My ears rang, feet unsteady, not sure what I’d just seen.
“The girls and your friend are safe,” Ruger said. “Come with me.”
For once in my life, words escaped me. My mouth hung open. Hawk looked at the Gray Man and the Gray Man at him.
Hawk nodded.
“Why’d you shoot Godfrey?” Hawk said.
“The boat captain worked for Steiner,” Ruger said. “He sold out both of you. I shot Godfrey to save him.”
“Can’t trust no one these days,” Hawk said.
“What shall we do about the woman?” Ruger said.
Poppy Palmer straddled Peter Steiner’s body, a hole in the center of his forehead leaking lots of blood. His brown eyes stared at the ceiling, jaw slack. She was crying and stroking his face and whispering sweet nonsensical things into his ear.
“Leave her,” I said.
I reached down and snatched Poppy Palmer to her feet. She clawed at my face with her long nails, drawing blood. Hawk backhanded her and grabbed her by the front of her robe, dragging her outside into the rain. A nervous young black woman in a maid’s uniform appeared from the kitchen, and Hawk yelled for her to bring him some rope.
I followed Ruger to one of the cottages, where we found Godfrey lying on the couch and Carly with the two Russian girls. Ruger pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began to dial. He said something harsh and quick in Russian and looked back to me. The rain picked up, falling in a slanting silver sheet across an immaculate green lawn.
“Who are they?” I said.
“Daughters of a very important and very rich man in Moscow,” Ruger said. “The man’s enemy kidnapped them and sold them to Steiner.”
“You cozied up to Steiner to find them,” I said. “Waiting for the right time to make a move.”
Ruger’s mouth twitched a bit. “I set in motion a nice diversion.”
Carly rushed out into the rain to round up the other three girls who’d been poolside with Steiner and Poppy. We followed her outside, where Ruger looked up into the sky.
“I guess an apology is in order,” I said.
Ruger shrugged. He walked over to the Russian girls, wet and shaking, and fitted his linen jacket around one of them.
“Some other time,” he said, disappearing.
A few minutes later, I heard the whoosh-whoosh of a helicopter and saw a spotlight rove over the property. A black military-style helicopter set down in the open land behind the main house.
Ruger emerged from the domed house with a heavy canvas travel bag slung over his shoulder, walking the two girls onto the helicopter.
He stopped for a moment to place a gray fedora on his head. Ruger looked to me and Hawk and tipped his hat before sliding up beside the copilot.
We watched the helicopter lift off Bonnet’s Cut and fly north toward Nassau.
“Now we gonna owe his ass,” Hawk said.
“The world is round.”
59
We stayed on Bonnet’s Cut until late the next afternoon. Hawk helped Godfrey with his wounds and Godfrey helped explain the situation with his friends at the Bahamian police. There were kidnapped girls, dead men, and Poppy Palmer crying foul. The police took her anyway and I was relieved I didn’t have to fit her in the overhead bin on the flight home. Her fate now in the hands of the Feds.
Three days and many phone calls, interviews, and meetings with the American consulate later, Hawk and I were back on Cat Island. I’d made arrangements for Carly to fly to Miami to both meet her sister and speak with the Feds. Another American girl, a sixteen-year-old from West Palm, was also headed home, while two teenage Cuban girls sought asylum in the Bahamas.
That morning, we decided to take a run up Como Hill, the tallest peak on the islands. We’d been running for a few miles already when Hawk pointed out our goal, and we dashed up the rocky path.
At the top of the hill was a medieval-style monastery fashioned of stone. Four buildings, a place of worship, a tall turret, a cookhouse, and a small room where the priest slept. It was tranquil and meditative. You could hear the click and whir of insects in the scrub around us. High above, we could see every corner of Cat Island.
I caught my breath. Hawk, hands on top of his head, studied my face.
“Damn,” he said. “She got you good.”
I touched the gouges from Poppy Palmer.
“Could’ve been worse.”
“Captain Rex,” Hawk said.
“I guess what happened between him and Godfrey is now between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“Better not ask.”
I walked up the stone steps and peered into the place of worship. I tried to picture this monk priest hauling every stone up the hill as an act of humility and faith. A salty wind blew in from the open windows, fluttering the pages of a water-logged guest book.
“I believe I just might stay awhile,” Hawk said.
Hawk pointed beyond a wooden cross and a tomb where the priest was buried to a spot along the west coast of the island.
“That’s my beach,” he said. “Maybe start building while I’m here.”
“I built that cabin in Maine,” I said. “Very therapeutic.”
“Fuck that,” Hawk said, grinning. “Getting me the best contractor on the island.”
“Seems like you have your hands full,” I said. “With Karena.”
“Been thinking about sending a ticket to Grace Bennett,” Hawk said. “Lots here to paint.”
“Landscape?” I said. “Or portrait?”
“How much would you pay for a painting of Black Moses?”
“At least five bucks,” I said.
I studied the rocky terrain through the scrub brush and scraggly trees. We’d take the road back to the beach and then head north to the cottage. There was time for a few beers, maybe some conch fritters, and then the flight back to Boston. I looked forward to seeing Susan and Pearl and explaining to Mattie about how extradition for Poppy might work.
“The Gray Man,” Hawk said. “Damn.”
“Getting that head through customs will be tricky,” I said.
“Man like Ruger don’t go through customs.”
“I would’ve preferred seeing Steiner in court.”
“Yeah?” Hawk said. “Not me. I liked to see what was left of him bleeding out on that nice rug.”
“Glad we have Rita,” I said. “Getting money for his victims might take years.”
“And then some,” Hawk said. “Man like Steiner knows every nook and cranny to hide his cash.”
“Arrogance,” I said. “All he had to do was hand over that backpack.”
“Folks like that don’t believe in the rules,” Hawk said. “You white and have money and you can do whatever you want.”
“What if you’re black with money?”
“Don’t always work like that.”
I nodded. Hawk motioned down to the steep rocky path. We bumped fists.
“Race you back,” Hawk said.
The hot wind swept across the stones and broken rocks by the monastery, whispering through the cracks and holes, jostling an old bell inside.
“With all you did,” I said. “I might even let you win.”
“Haw,” Hawk said. “Never have. Never will.”
“Bottle of Iron Horse?” I said.
“Two bottles of Iron Horse,” he said.
Without a word, I sped down the hill, Hawk catching up fast. The path rocky and steep down to the beach road. Out of respect, I didn’t let up in the least.
60
On my third day back in Boston, Matthew Greebel, attorney at law, rapped on my office
door.
I was less than delighted to see him. But I let him in anyway.
He wore a pinstripe suit, his black hair slicked back, and smelled of men’s room cologne.
The knock had awoken Pearl from a slumber on the couch, and she jumped off in time to bark at his pant leg.
“Didn’t realize this office allowed animals,” Greebel said.
“They don’t,” I said. “Get to the point fast and maybe no one will notice.”
Greebel smiled so big, I was pretty sure I could play “The Entertainer” across his upper teeth. I leaned back in my chair as Pearl jumped back onto the couch, ever vigilant to our less-than-distinguished visitor.
He took a seat without being asked.
“I guess you’ve heard the news.”
“Poppy Palmer has disappeared.”
“Bahamian authorities had nothing to hold her on,” he said. “Did you expect her to fly back to Boston and answer these ridiculous charges about Peter Steiner? The man was brutally murdered, for God’s sake.”
“What a complete and total loss for humanity,” I said.
“These girls knew what they were getting into.”
“Would you prefer leaving by door or window?”
Greebel smiled and held up his hands. “Spense,” he said. “Spense. I came with a fair and just offer for your clients. For any type of hardships they think they endured.”
“Talk to Rita Fiore.”
“I can’t talk to that nasty woman,” he said. “The language she used is highly unprofessional.”
I nodded behind him. “Door?” I said. “Or window?”
Greebel smiled. He quoted a figure for each of the girls named in the civil suit, which now included Carly Ly and a few others. It was a great deal of money.
“Not my decision to make.”
“Or you can play tough guy and keep everything tied up in court until these girls are grandmas,” Greebel said.
“I’ll pass it on to Rita.”
“Um,” he said. “This is a limited-time offer. Better act now.”
I took a breath, stood, and walked to the bay window. I looked down to the sidewalk along Berkeley Street and then back to Greebel. “Only three stories,” I said. “You might even make it.”